CARN BREA from my Father's Fields—A May-Day Visit to its Summit—Poets' Baggage—Singing Larks—Granite Cutters—Apostrophe to Childhood—Druid-carved Boulders—Tones of Nature—Visions—Mountain Flowers—Quoit—Gorseddan—Rock-basons—Castle—Monument—Cottager—Echoes through the Broom—Strange Story—Moonlight—The two Lovers—Beauty of Nature—Their growing Affection—He attends her as she milks the Cows—At the Fountain—From the Market—Laura's Affliction—His Offering of Spring-flowers—First Visit to her Home—Parting in the Porch—Autumn—Climbing the old Hill—Sitting on a Moss-bank—His Address—Deep Silence—Anxiety—Her Death in the Moonlight—His Solitude—Exit—Old Man at his Door—A Tale of War—His two Sons—The Battle-field—Sad Sights—Youth dying by a River—A Father and his four Lads—The Last Letter—Death by Fever—Effect of the Tidings—His War Dirge—Prayer—Door of his Hut—Feeding the Sparrows—Soliloquy—More of the Saviour—Mercies reviewed—Friends—Children—The Evening Board—Praise to Jesus—Bethsaida—The toiling Rowers—Christ walking on the Sea—Horsemen and Miner again.

HOW often hast thou fed my early Muse,
Crag-heap'd Carn Brea, when from my father's meads
I scann'd thy front, mist-clad or clear, deeming
My mount and thee twin-sisters beautiful!
One bright May morn, when violets were rare,
I trick'd old Labour, and equipp'd myself
With poets' baggage, pencil, sheet, and lyre,
And, walking o'er the moors, I turn'd my face
Towards its summit shining in the dawn,
As't were an old bard welcoming the young.
I cross'd the meadows, follow'd by our dog,
Who snuff'd the air and bark'd among the flowers,
Right happy to be free! The larks were up,
Singing among the cloudlets, and sweet song
Gush'd from a hundred hollows. In the fields
The cottagers were busy with their spades,
And ploughs, and harrows; and perhaps they thought
I was a crazy fellow wandering weird.
I reach'd the mountain's base, where an old man
And a young lad were cutting granite blocks,
Perchance to build a cottage of their own;
And hard enough they work'd. So on I went
To gain the summit of this famous carn,
Which look'd so distant from my father's door,
That oft in childhood I have thought the sun
Stopp'd on the rocks and started forth again,
Renew'd by resting on its ridgy brow;
And in my dreams within my own dear bower
I oft believed, if I could wander there,
I should be sure to see great Phœbus' bed,
And mark the door from whence the moon came out,
And view the' uncover'd stars. O, childhood, fair
Art thou, and innocent as fair, and sweet
As breeze-blown odours from the banks of broom,
And fleet as sweet,—gone like an uncaged bird.
I gain',d the hill-top, saw its boulders bare,
Some worn by time, some carved by Druid art,
Where oft perhaps the painted Briton pray'd
To Thor and Woden, offering human blood,
When moral darkness fill'd our blessed isle.
Thank God, the light has come, the living light,
Chasing the shadows, gilding house and hall,
And guiding Albion in the way of truth.
Even then, boy as I was, I learn'd to list,
Beside the banks and rocks and hedges low,
For any tones of Nature's poetry
Straying upon the zephyr; and methought
I heard the tramp of feet along the down,
And saw, as in a mirror, bearded chiefs,
With battle-bows, and skins about their loins,
And paint upon their cheeks, calling aloud
On gods which having eyes could never see,
And ears could never hear; and such a shriek
Rush'd from the rocks, that, snatching up my lyre,
I hasten'd from the hill, and at its foot
Stopp'd for a moment, gazing wildly round,
To pluck some flowers with white-and-yellow leaves,
Which I bore home, calling my brothers round,
And little sister, giving them the whole.
They seem'd to wonder where such flowers could grow,
And begg'd me I would tell them. Sitting down
On a green hillock 'neath our hawthorn tree,
I pointed to the mountain far away,
And told them that its sides were cover'd o'er
With these dear beings pale with gentleness.
They shouted in their mirth, "Brother has been
Up in the sky, and pluck'd those pretty flowers,
And brought them to us." So they tripp'd about,
Well-pleased to have my nosegay for a toy.

I had been on the mount, and breathed its air.
Bathed in its glory, worshipp'd in its gloom,
Clamber'd its stairs, beheld its chambers huge,
Paused by the quoit, and listen'd by the cave,
Harp'd on its wild gorseddau,[*1] light-enthroned,
And the rock-basons, stain'd with mysteries;
Read cantos on the castle, where each ledge
Is a rude poem from the pen of Time;
Breathed in deep silence by the monument,
Sacred to one who bears a noble name; [*2]
And felt repaid, and then paid o'er again,
For my rough climbing; wishing, too, that May
Would reign without a rival. Walking back,
I travell'd on, through song from bird and stream,
The lark in air, the cuckoo on the bough,
And, meeting with a cottager, I caught
The following echoes struggling through the broom.

[*1 Judgment-seat of the Druids.]
[*2 Lord de Dunstanville.]

"The moon was resting on a broken cloud,
Bright as an angel, when, beside that rock
Deep-channell'd yonder, two fond lovers sat
Reading each other's faces. As they gazed,
Tears fell, and sighs were utter'd, which the dark
Reveal'd not, as their sweet lips met again,
And kiss'd like streamlets. Each far star appear'd
A burning seraph with a harp of joy,
And the old world was Eden. O'er the carn
Glanced white-robed visions, and the swelling wind
Wafted their names upon it. From her bower,
O'erarch'd with ivy, Happiness look'd forth,
And sang her tenderest vesper, while the heath,
Brown in its beauty, wooed bright angel-feet,
And shook with solemn breathings. Thus they sat,
Embower'd with blossoms from the tree of bliss.
How beautiful the dawnmg of young love,
Gilt with the glory of the sun of hope,
Fresh, Eden-odour'd ! On the mountain sides,
In the still vales and hamlets, rustic-robed,
And clover farms, she lingers, clad in white,
Amid the ruins of this blighted ball.

"Like a fair flower had their affection grown
In the dear dingles of their fatherland,
Sweet-scenting every action; first the bud,
And then the bloom, and then the perfect rose,
Ripe for the white-robed angel. When she walk'd
In gentle girlhood through the peat-hedged meads,
To milk the cows beneath the flowery thorn,
He whistled at the gate, and saw her home.
And if at eve she took her waterpots,
To fill them at the fountain, there was he,
Conversing by her side, and aiding her
To cross the narrow stiles with granite steps,
Bearing her pitcher even to the door.
And when she rode from market, holding fast
The basket on her lap, he strove to steal
Across the lane, with business on his brow,
Or true or false, he cared not, so he caught
A smile from her to gladden all his care.
And one May eve he wash'd and comb'd his curls,
And brush'd his best coat lustily, and took
Some wild flowers in his hand, which he had pluck'd,
Searching the moorland for them when the sun
Shower'd his warm kisses on the shelter'd banks,
Or hedges tipp'd with green, and bent his steps
Towards her dwelling, lighted up with love.
For she was ill, mid those sweet offerings pale
Were for his Laura, beautiful in gloom,—
Daisies and blue-bells, buttercups and moss,
And primroses, with sonnets on their leaves.
The wakening world look'd like a petted bard
Shining in fresh-won laurel, and the sky,
Blue in its brightness, seem'd the gate of heaven.
He touch'd the latch, it rose, and soon the door
Turn'd on its hinges, and he found himself,
For the first time, sitting beside his love
In her own home. They blush'd, and blush'd again;
And then the father spoke, the mother too;
And the youth felt his tremor wane away,
Even as the wind falls on a summer eve,
And leave him chainless. In the porch she came
At parting, sweetly bidding him good night.
Thus step by step the Graces led them on.

"Summer was past, and in the leafless wood
Autumn lay down to die. Deep mourning tones
Arose from Nature, and the sky wept tears
Upon the sounding earth, as, one gray eve,
They c1imb'd the old hill with elastic tread,
And, sitting on a moss-bank, hand in hand,
Conversed in whispers. On her path the moon
Walk'd robed in silver, and the white rocks look'd
Like saints assembled on the hills of heaven.
He spoke delighted; as he spoke, love words
Came thronging on him, till his speech surprised
The speaker, and the gentle listener smiled;
Then bent her head, even as the lily bows
When the sun blush'd too deeply on its face.
'How happy must we be when yon small home
Among the rushes shall be wholly ours;
And we dwell there like honeysuckles dwell,
In the green covert, shedding sweet for sweet!
How will we tend the crocus, how the rose,
And how the woodbine climbing to the thatch!
How beautiful shall be our walks at eve,
Twilight descending, and the day's toil done!
And when the Sabbath, like a traveller, comes
From the peace-shore, with hymns upon its harp,
And prayers and praises flowing from its tongue,
How will our hearts rejoice beneath the vine
Of holy Israel, rich with clustering love!
And should the crow of baby-ones be heard,
And baby-feet patter along the floor,
And baby-music shiver by the hearth,
How will we love them for the Giver's sake,
And dedicate our rose-buds to the Lord!
Speak, speak, my angel, shall it not be so?'

"He listen'd, and the silence deeper grew;
The wild bird scream'd among the naked blocks,
The wind came rustling, and deep shadows stalk'd
Along the hill-side, whispers fill'd the air
Mysterious, weird-like. 'Answer me, my love,
My light, my life, my summer in the cold,
My fountain in the desert, answer me.
Shall not our love grow stronger year by year?'
Still no reply, but silence deep as death.
Gently he touch'd her hand,—it fell like stone.
Then, stooping down, he look'd into her face.
Her eyes were fireless, and the roses fled.
He kiss'd her lips; but they were cold as rock.
A shudder shook him, all his pulses beat,
And coals seem'd heap'd upon his burning brain;
Life's courses almost stopp'd, as with a shriek
Her name rush'd from him, echoing o'er the wild.
He knelt and wail'd, then rose, and cried again,
Gazed on her face, and wonder'd in her eyes,
Entreated her to whisper but a word,
Or smile upon him; but she stiller lay,
And colder grew, and wax'd more pale, until
The truth hiss'd through him, that the foe had quench'd
An arrow in her heart, and she was dead.
Yes, she was dead! In Love's enchanted bower
Blissful she lay, when death came, like a breeze
Laden with wings, and lull'd her into rest.
Her pillow was the moss, her couch the heath,
Her canopy the star-bespangled blue,
Her curtains Cynthia's tissues, and the rays
Which play about the blessed in their dreams
Her free attendants. So she gently died,
As dies the moonlight on a harvest morn;
And angels came and carried her to heaven.

"Darkness o'ercame him, harp and tabor ceased;
The glory of the old mount waned away;
The face of man grew strange. He sought the fields,
And sounding wilds, and caverns cloak'd with shade,
And moors with marshes mournful, till his hair
Grew as the shaggy common, and his form
Spare as the lonely alder. Boy, and girl,
And timid matron, shunn'd him in their walk,
And village gossip gave him twilight fame;
And one clear evening, when the moon was full,
Two harvesters, returning from the meads,
Beheld him sitting on his favourite bank
Where Laura's spirit left her. He appear'd
Like one conversing with some mystic shape,
Or far-off brightness. On his head he wore
A hat of oaten straw, and in his hand
He held an oaken staff, rough-knotted round,
And he was gazing eastward. Days, and months,
And heavy years lagg'd by, with sorrow fraught;
But he was seen not, and return'd no more."

The peasant wiped his brow, and, sobbing, said,—

"An aged man was sitting by his door
One quiet evening, listening to the sounds
That rose from Nature, and a tale he told
Of war and want, that smote the listener's ear.
Two sons had he, his comfort and his stay,
His all in life; he had no kin besides.
For they had ripen'd quickly, and lay lopp'd
Beneath the reaper's sickle. Years pass'd by,
And Peace slept in their dwelling, till, one morn,
The brasen trumpet bray'd among the hills,
And forth they rush'd to battle. What they saw,
And what they heard, and what they suffer'd there,
Can hardly be imagined:—yells that made
The hill-sides tremble, and the stately pines
To wag their weeping tops; hoarse howls that drove
The timid beast beyond its trodden lines,
The wild bird from its covert; dying groans
Upon the pulses of the laden breeze,
As if had dawn'd the dreaded day of doom;
The crash of arms, the roar of musketry,
The thunder of the cannon, at whose sound
The great rocks seem'd to bellow, and the heights,
Studded with tongues, appear'd one awful clang;
The rush of armies, as their spear-points met,
Rustled and waver'd,like the black north wind
Among the forest branches; towns on fire
And cities roaring in one horrid blaze;
The widow murder'd, and the fatherless
Stabb'd, shrieking for their parents: greybeards gouged
At their own tables, the sharp-pointed steel
Pinning their stain'd locks to the social board;
Men dying in the darkness, wailing loud
For distant friends, some with torn scalps, and some
With limbs hewn like a tree; some hot for thirst,
With tongues cracked and glazed eyes, and some
Bleeding away in quiet, gleams of home
And face familiar passing through the mind;
Some uttering prayers a mother's love had taught,
And some with curses on their closing lips;
Some starving in the bushes, peel'd with shells
That blazed and crash'd, and left them there to die,
Forgotten by their fellows, who had wheel'd
As the foe drifted, madden'd with the charge,
Lorn now of reason, staring at the stars.

"A young man by a river stain'd with blood,
His school-gift Bible lying at his side,
With clotted hair, and jaw-bone rooted off,
Lay gazing at a locket. 'T was the shade
Of one who loved him, where the roses twine
About her father's cottage. Death had set
His impress on his features, and full soon
He cross'd the river, and his name was lost.
A father and his four sons in a trench
Lay heap'd together, mark'd with many a scar,
Down-toppled from a rampart. They had fought
In noise and blood, till, overcome at last
By pressing thousands, they were spear'd, and shot,
And hack'd, and sabred, and then wildly toss'd
Upon each other, spear-points broken off,
Out-gushing from their bodies, and their limbs
Shatter'd or lopp'd;—in a green vale beyond
Leaving a mother childless, and a wife
In lonely widowhood and endless tears.
The old man's boys beheld them lying there,
The warm blood mingling as it faintly flow'd,
And penn'd a letter to him. Hunger sharp
Was then their portion, watching and fatigue.
They begg'd his prayers, and hoped that heaven at last
Would be their meeting-place. They wrote no more.
In a few days a fearful fever came
And hurried them away, and in one grave
They both were tumbled, without board or shroud,
On a lone prarie where the wild beast roars.

"The tidings reach'd him, and his hair turn'd grey,
Turn'd in a single night, and the blow bent
His body, even as the slim reed bends
When the cold tempest mutters. Then, like Job,
He stoop'd submissive, asking for His love
Who doeth all things well, who gives all good,
And for our profit taketh it away.
And oft at eve, when murmurs fill the vale,
And loiter up the mountain, when the air
Is faint with softness, and the purple hills
Seem throng'd with angels, many a villager
Is startled in his cabin as he sings
His war-dirge mournful: 'War, O cruel war,
Thou hungry murder-fiend, the foulest foe
That prowls the globe with clutches all a-gore,
Red rankling demon, burning bigot, off!
I curse thee in my soul. Two sons had I,
And thou hast wrapp'd them in thy fiery folds.
They sleep together, where the sod was red; And now I travel lonely to the grave.
My all they were, my everything on earth:
They ask'd my prayers; I gave them, and they died,
Died among strangers, in their greenness died.
And yet men call this glory! O great King,
Hasten the time when swords and horrid spears
Shall change their being, and the fearful fiend
Lie chain'd for ever under thick eclipse!'

"The traveller, passing by his rushy home,
Beholds him at his door, oft scattering crumbs
To feed the sparrows, or conversing low
With little redbreast on the hawthorn-tree,
Straining his eyes beyond the distant hills
As if he saw the gateway into rest."

More, more of Thee, my Saviour: though the winds
Howl, and the waves rise higher than the land;
Though poverty come rushing like a blast,
Or persecution meet me on my way,
Or pain or weakness; Saviour, more of Thee!
Even like the mariner upon the plank,
Whose bark has founder'd and whose mates are drown'd,
Not heeding the full moon on the cloud's crest,
Or the bright stars above him, but whose eyes
Are rivetted on the approaching ship,
Steering to save him, so would I behold
The Man of Sorrows crucified for me.
More, more of Thee, my Saviour, when the morn
Breaks o'er the mountains, or hot noontide pants
Along the dingles, or pale Evening sits
Singing her vespers by her glow-worm lamp,—
More, more of Thee, my Saviour! Though I learn
But little of the world and the world's ways,
And men pass by me in their rush for fame,
And friends forsake me, leaving me to pine
Where leafless branches rustle, and the ice
Of cold neglect hangs on the wither'd spray,
And hungry beasts are prowling, roaring loud,—
More, more of Thee, my Saviour! Though the bars
Of some dark prison shut me from the light,
And chains press on my limbs, and I sit there,
An utter outcast, gnawing a dry crust,
And sipping stagnant waters, while the hands
Of Want and Woe pluck off the wasted hair,—
More, more of Thee, my Saviour! Seas are cross'd,
And lands are traversed, for the dust of gold.
Bright blades are bared, red armies meet in strife,
Dark plots are laid, and, O, what blood is shed!
Men ponder night and day, and day and night,
How they may fill their coffers. "Give me gold,
O give me gold," cry out the multitude,
Pursuing gain in paths all dark with gloom.
I sigh not for earth's treasures. As Thou wilt,
Thou great Disposer, give or take away.
More, more of Thee, my Saviour! If I walk
Through thorns and briers, or o'er beds of moss;
Where Plenty spreads her table; if my path
Is rough with trial, or all smooth with joy;
If Favour sing my praises in her poems,
Or Calumny deface the precious page;
Whatever be my lot, where'er my place,
If high or low, or be it rich or poor,
In cloud or light, in sunshine or in shade,—
More, more of Thee, my Saviour, till I gaze
Upon Thy glory in the land of love!

How many mercies meet me on my way,
Making my life delightful! Loving friends,
Like sunlight in the darkness, wife and home,
And little children running at my call,
Climbing my knees, and mingling in my joys,
And sometimes sharing in my draught of woe.
O blessed Saviour, thank Thee for the buds
Around my table, lovelier than the green
Which robes the valleys redolent with rills.
And when I see the pining little one,
In other households, or the empty chair
And playthings left in quiet; when I mark
The scalding tear upon the mother's face,
From mention of her darling whom the grave
Holds in the darkness; when I sometimes hear
The church-bells toll among the solemn trees
For childhood in its greenness; words of praise
Press to my lips, and gush up from my soul,
For those Thy love preserveth, blooming fair
In my home-garden by the blue sea-shore,
The breeze of health flowing among the leaves
Pencill'd with lines of beauty, yielding me
An everlasting summer. O what joy
To meet them at the hearth when evening comes,
Each like a ringing poem, and their eyes
Gleaming with glances of a brighter day!
And when they sit around the frugal board,
Enjoying what our Father has bestow'd,
My cup of bliss uprises to the brim,
Bubbles and overflows, inspiring strains
That echo only in the home of love.

Once more I shake me from dull worldly thoughts
That twine into my being, and look up
Where dwells the' Incarnate pleading for a world,
Praising Thy name, O Jesus. Have I not
Unnumber'd blessings ever at my side,
Both when I wake and when I rest in sleep,
Which others know not, and do not enjoy?
Troubles I have, in common with my kin,
And sorrow upon sorrow, which all feel
Whilst journeying homeward through a land of foes.
But He who saw the humble fishermen,
On the wild billows near Bethsaida,
Toiling in rowing, and who walk'd the waste
Of surging waters with majestic step,
Proving His Godhead, quelling their hot fears,
And speaking down the tumult of the storm,
So that the winds fell powerless, and the blast
Shatter'd its trumpet, hurrying through the void,
Sees me a toiling rower on the sea
Of dark distress, toss'd with the fretful waves;
And in His own good time will surely come
And whisper, "It is I; be not afraid;"
Guiding my vessel to the port of peace.

Our horsemen linger by the widow's fire,
Where we may meet at the next chapter's close,
In fields of story, fresh from fatherland.
We left our miner by the lady's lodge,
Blessing and blest, within his heart a joy
That gladden'd every object, driving far
The clouds of gloom which hung above his head,
Filling with light the glowing firmament,
And trees and dancing flowers, as forth he walk'd
Into the' glory of the outer world.