Cottage Poems Part 3

Let nothing here elate your breast, Nor, for one moment, break your rest, In heavenly wisdom grow: Still keep your anchor fixed above, Where Jesus reigns in boundless love, And streams of pleasure flow.

So shall your life glide smoothly by Without a tear, without a sigh, And purest joys will crown Each birthday, as the year revolves, Till this clay tenement dissolves, And leaves the soul unbound.

Then shall you land on Canaan's sh.o.r.e, Where time and chance shall be no more, And joy eternal reigns; There, mixing with the seraphs bright, And dressed in robes of heavenly light, You'll raise angelic strains.

THE IRISH CABIN.

Should poverty, modest and clean, E'er please, when presented to view, Should cabin on brown heath, or green, Disclose aught engaging to you, Should Erin's wild harp soothe the ear When touched by such fingers as mine, Then kindly attentive draw near, And candidly ponder each line.

One day, when December's keen breath Arrested the sweet running rill, And Nature seemed frozen in death, I thoughtfully strolled o'er the hill: The mustering clouds wore a frown, The mountains were covered with snow, And Winter his mantle of brown Had spread o'er the landscape below.

Thick rattling the footsteps were heard Of peasants far down in the vale; From lakes, bogs, and marshes debarred, The wild-fowl, aloft on the gale, Loud gabbling and screaming were borne, Whilst thundering guns hailed the day, And hares sought the thicket forlorn, Or, wounded, ran over the way.

No music was heard in the grove, The blackbird and linnet and thrush, And goldfinch and sweet cooing dove, Sat pensively mute in the bush: The leaves that once wove a green shade Lay withered in heaps on the ground: Chill Winter through grove, wood, and glade Spread sad desolation around.

But now the keen north wind 'gan whistle, And gusty, swept over the sky; Each hair, frozen, stood like a bristle, And night thickened fast on the eye.

In swift-wheeling eddies the snow Fell, mingling and drifting amain, And soon all distinction laid low, As whitening it covered the plain.

A light its pale ray faintly shot (The snow-flakes its splendour had shorn), It came from a neighbouring cot, Some called it the Cabin of Mourne: {221} A neat Irish Cabin, snow-proof, Well thatched, had a good earthen floor, One chimney in midst of the roof, One window, and one latched door.

Escaped from the pitiless storm, I entered the humble retreat; Compact was the building, and warm, Its furniture simple and neat.

And now, gentle reader, approve The ardour that glowed in each breast, As kindly our cottagers strove To cherish and welcome their guest.

The dame nimbly rose from her wheel, And brushed off the powdery snow: Her daughter, forsaking the reel, Ran briskly the cinders to blow: The children, who sat on the hearth, Leaped up without murmur or frown, An oaken stool quickly brought forth, And smilingly bade me sit down.

Whilst grateful sensations of joy O'er all my fond bosom were poured, Resumed was each former employ, And gay thrifty order restored: The blaze flickered up to the crook, The reel clicked again by the door, The dame turned her wheel in the nook, And frisked the sweet babes round the floor.

Released from the toils of the barn, His thrifty, blithe wife hailed the sire, And hanging his flail by her yarn, He drew up his stool to the fire; Then smoothing his brow with his hand, As if he would sweep away sorrow, He says, "Let us keep G.o.d's command, And never take thought for the morrow."

Brisk turning him round with a smile, And freedom unblended by art, And affable manners and style, Though simple, that reached to my heart, He said (whilst with ardour he glowed), "Kind sir, we are poor, yet we're blest: We're all in the steep, narrow road That leads to the city of rest.

"'Tis true, I must toil all the day, And oft suffer cold through the night, Though silvered all over with grey, And dimly declining my sight: And sometimes our raiment and food Are scanty--ah! scanty indeed: But all work together for good, So in my blest Bible I read.

"I also have seen in that Book (Perhaps you can tell me the place?) How G.o.d on poor sinners does look In pity, and gives them His grace-- Yea, gives them His grace in vast store, Sufficient to help them quite through, Though troubles should whelm them all o'er; And sure this sweet promise is true!

"Yes, true as the snow blows without, And winds whistle keen through the air, His grace can remove every doubt, And chase the black gloom of despair: It often supports my weak mind, And wipes the salt tear from my eye, It tells me that Jesus is kind, And died for such sinners as I.

"I once rolled in wealth, without grace, But happiness ne'er was my lot, Till Christ freely pitied my case, And now I am blest in a cot: Well knowing things earthly are vain, Their troubles ne'er puzzle my head; Convinced that to die will be gain, I look on the grave as my bed.

"I look on the grave as my bed, Where I'll sleep the swift hours away, Till waked from their slumbers, the dead Shall rise, never more to decay: Then I, with my children and wife, Shall get a bright palace above, And endlessly clothed with life, Shall dwell in the Eden of love.

"Then know, gentle stranger, though poor, We're cheerful, contented, and blest; Though princes should pa.s.s by our door King Jesus is ever our guest; We feel, and we taste, and we see The pleasures which flow from our Lord, And fearless, and wealthy, and free, We live on the joys of His word."

He ceased: and a big tear of joy Rolled glittering down to the ground; Whilst all, having dropped their employ, Were buried in silence profound; A sweet, solemn pause long ensued-- Each bosom o'erflowed with delight; Then heavenly converse renewed, Beguiled the dull season of night.

We talked of the rough narrow way That leads to the kingdom of rest; On Pisgah we stood to survey The King in His holiness dressed-- Even Jesus, the crucified King, Whose blood in rich crimson does flow, Clean was.h.i.+ng the crimson of sin, And rinsing it whiter that snow. {225}

But later and later it's wearing, And supper they cheerfully bring, The mealy potato and herring, And water just fresh from the spring.

They press, and they smile: we sit down; First praying the Father of Love Our table with blessings to crown, And feed us with bread from above.

The wealthy and bloated may sneer, And sicken o'er luxury's dishes, And loathe the poor cottager's cheer, And melt in the heat of their wishes: But luxury's sons are unblest, A prey to each giddy desire, And hence, where they never know rest, They sink in unquenchable fire.

Not so, the poor cottager's lot, Who travels the Zion-ward road, He's blest in his neat little cot, He's rich in the favour of G.o.d; By faith he surmounts every wave That rolls on this sea of distress: Triumphant, he dives in the grave, To rise on the ocean of bliss.

Now supper is o'er and we raise Our prayers to the Father of light And joyfully hymning His praise, We lovingly bid a good-night.-- The ground's white, the sky's cloudless blue, The breeze flutters keen through the air, The stars twinkle bright on my view, As I to my mansion repair.

All peace, my dear cottage, be thine!

Nor think that I'll treat you with scorn; Whoever reads verses of mine Shall hear of the Cabin of Mourne; And had I but musical strains, Though humble and mean in your station You should smile whilst the world remains, The pride of the fair Irish Nation.

In friends.h.i.+p, fair Erin, you glow; Offended, you quickly forgive; Your courage is known to each foe, Yet foes on your bounty might live.

Some faults you, however, must own; Dissensions, impetuous zeal, And wild prodigality, grown Too big for your income and weal.

Ah! Erin, if you would be great, And happy, and wealthy, and wise, And trample your sorrows, elate, Contend for our cottager's prize; So error and vice shall decay, And concord add bliss to renown, And you shall gleam brighter than day, The gem of the fair British Crown.

TO THE REV. J. GILPIN, ON HIS IMPROVED EDITION OF THE "PILGRIM'S PROGRESS."

When, Reverend Sir, your good design, To clothe our Pilgrim gravely fine, And give him gentler mien and gait, First reached my ear, his doubtful fate With dread suspense my mind oppressed, Awoke my fears, and broke my rest.

Yet, still, had England said, "You're free, Choose whom you will," dear sir, to thee, For dress beseeming modest worth, I would have led our pilgrim forth.

But when I viewed him o'er and o'er, And scrutinized the weeds he wore, And marked his mien and marked his gait, And saw him trample sin, elate, And heard him speak, though coa.r.s.e and plain, His mighty truths in nervous strain, I could not gain my own consent To your acknowledged good intent.

I had my fears, lest honest John, When he beheld his polished son (If saints ought earthly care to know), Would take him for some Bond Street beau, Or for that thing--it wants a name-- Devoid of truth, of sense and shame, Which smooths its chin and licks its lip, And mounts the pulpit with a skip, Then turning round its pretty face, To smite each fair one in the place, Relaxes half to vacant smile, And aims with trope and polished style, And lisp affected, to pourtray Its silly self in colours gay-- Its fusty moral stuff t' unload, And preach itself, and not its G.o.d.

Thus, wis.h.i.+ng, doubting, trembling led, I oped your book, your Pilgrim read.

As rising Phoebus lights the skies, And fading night before him flies, Till darkness to his cave is hurled And golden day has gilt the world, Nor vapour, cloud, nor mist is seen To sully all the pure serene: So, as I read each modest line, Increasing light began to s.h.i.+ne, My cloudy fears and doubts gave way, Till all around shone Heaven's own day.

And when I closed the book, thought I, Should Bunyan leave his throne on high; He'd own the kindness you have done To Christian, his orphan son: And smiling as once Eden smiled, Would thus address his holy child:--

"My son, ere I removed from hence, I spared nor labour nor expense To gain for you the heavenly prize, And teach you to make others wise.

But still, though inward worth was thine, You lay a diamond in the mine: You wanted outward polish bright To show your pure intrinsic light.

Some knew your worth, and seized the prize, And now are throned in the skies: Whilst others swilled with folly's wine, But trod the pearl like the swine, In ignorance sunk in their grave, And thence, where burning oceans lave.

Now polished bright, your native flame And inward worth are still the same; A flaming diamond still you glow, In brighter hues: then cheery go-- More suited by a skilful hand To do your father's high command: Fit ornament for sage or clown, Or beggar's rags, or kingly crown.

THE COTTAGE MAID.

Aloft on the brow of a mountain, And hard by a clear running fountain, In neat little cot, Content with her lot, Retired, there lives a sweet maiden.