In sun, in rain, in dark, in light,
Where'er my footsteps roam :
"O master, give it up to me,
And I will row you home."
"Tis thus with HIM who came to save
The ruined sons of men :
We are to trust His power as I
Believed the boatman then;
And though the winds may smite the dark,
And angry surges foam,
The loving Christ of Nazareth
Will guide His people home.
October 14th, 1876.
HE violets again! the violets again!
Their blue faces smile in the lea-hedge and lane,
By the well in the village, and down by the mere
Where the queen-fays are playing when moonlight is clear,
And up mid the bracken where crags catch the rain :
'Tis spring-time, 'tis spring-time—the violets again!
They gladden the schoolboy, and quicken the sage;
They fling their sweet spells over childhood and age :
The sick one is cheered with their glances so dear,
And the ploughman sings louder to know they are near,
And whistles the driver beside the wide wain :
'Tis spring-time, 'tis spring-time-the violets again!
In forest and fallow they shine in their beds
As blue as the firmament over our heads;
And sounds from their moss-homes are murmuring all day,
That man should be grateful and evermore pray :
For the God of the flowers has made nothing in vain :
'Tis spring-time, 'tis spring time—the violets again!
Then let us not murmur, but honour His hand
Whose blossoms of beauty are filling the land.
How they gleam in the dingles, and wave 'neath the trees,
For evermore wafting His name on the breeze!
Though changes o'ertake us, we will not complain :
'Tis spring-time, 'tis spring-time-the violets again!
WILIGHT with me, twilight with thee:
No morn my strength restores,
As when, companioned with my harp,
I wandered down thy moors,
And heard, where bowers were ivy-roofed,
Cross-streaked with sunset hues,
When boyhood roved among thy meads,
The mysteries of the Muse.
From morn till eve, from youth to age,
Till green leaves turned to brown,
Have I, enamoured of thy charms,
Gone crooning up and down,
Until thy streams and bye-ways still
And solemn commons wide
Were like the faces of my flock
Around my own fireside.
When moonlight-shafts fell on thy meres,
And fairies thronged thy wells,
How oft I've heard the queen of song
Within thy flowery dells!
And where thy mineral stores lie hid
Beneath the pall of night,
Mine ears have caught unuttered strains
From many a tinselled sprite.
In glens where giants lived in caves,
And princes stalked of yore,
I've stayed my feet to hear the rush
Of armies on the shore,
Where now the glancing swallows wheel
Till glows the red sunset
Along thy craggy castled peaks,
Or fisher plies his net.
Twilight with me, twilight with thee:
Yet still thy waters roar,
And great ships come and great ships go
With many a precious store.
Thy mountain-tarns are sacred sites,
Thy peaks are holy ground,
Where angels gather in the dusk
When psalms are floating round.
From schoolboy tasks to fading age,
Thy reeds and rocks among,
Muse-led, my earnest life has been
An era of strange song.
My theme thy beauties unsurpassed
On sea-side, mead, and moor,
Where fairest damsels sing thy fame
By many a rustic door.
Yet though I hear the sound of strings
Among thy rustling reed,
And voices whispering in thy pines,
Men give but little heed.
And if I tell them song is there,
So many turn their head,
And almost offer me a stone
In lieu of daily bread.
Twilight with me, twilight with thee:
Yet will I sing thy worth
Until thou yieldest me a grave
Within my mother earth.
The flowers are fair in other lands,
And clear the waters fall,
But old Cornwallia is the best
And brightest of them all.
RIM the light, Emma dear, let it burn, let it burn:
The cold wind is sweeping by every turn:
It shaketh the window, and rattleth the door,
And rolleth away with a rush and a roar
Down the echoing cliffs, through the terrible dark,
To the sea, to the sea, with our Joe and his bark.
"Trim the light, Emma dear, trim the light, trim the light: His last letter said he was coming to-night :
From the offing he'll watch for our beacon's bright ray—
Hark! a gun of distress at the mouth of the bay!
How sadly it sounds through the sorrowful dark!
It may be our Joe in his storm-driven bark.
"Add oil to the lamp, let it flame, let it flame:
There's a sound in my ears like our sailor boy's name,
And a footstep is coming I very well know-
It must be, it must be the tread of our Joe.
The gate has banged to, he is getting so near:
How I'll hug him and kiss him! Thank God, he is here!"
WIDOW was Granny much wasted with care,
And bright lines of silver had mixed with her hair : Her thin cheeks were worn with the sorrows of years; Deep channels were there, as if washed out with tears. She stooped a bit forward, wherever she went, And the villagers knew her as old Granny Bent.
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