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BOOK XII.

• SINCE the sad hour of parting with his child,
• Seldom the sorrow-stricken father smiled;
• Yet was not sadness all the shade that threw
• Across his manly brow a graver hue.
• page: 268
• Something there was, more deep, but more resigned
• Than grief, that pains and agitates the mind—
• A holier calm to all his feelings given,
• A firmer confidence and faith in Heaven.
• He was an altered man; but less in word
• Than thought; for rarely was he heard
• To tell of changes wrought upon his heart.
• Enough for him, to choose that better part—
• Enough for him, to seek that service sweet
• Blessed by the Saviour, when with spotless feet
• He came and trod the thorny ways of earth—
• Enough for him, at last to feel the worth
• Of heavenly things. The rest might pass away.
• His strength was now sufficient for the day;
• And troubles, once so grievous to endure,
• Now harmed him not, his peace was too secure.

• And sorely needed was this heavenly calm,
• With all it yields, of healing, and of balm.
• page: 269
• For thickly came the trials of each hour,
• While o'er his earthly course dark shadows seemed to lower.

• Yet did not all despond. A few there were
• Who cast away the burden of their care,
• When summer smiled, and purple meadows threw,
• Over the sunny slope a richer hue.
• And spread the cheering influence far and wide,
• Like the soft swell of some long-wished-for tide.
• For smiling nature, like a welcome guest,
• With joy enlivened many a drooping breast:
• And hope revived, when harvest once again
• Waved her wide banner o'er the golden plain.

• And now the reapers hasten to the field,
• Stoop to their toil, or resolutely wield
• The sweeping scythe; and with a rushing sound
• Thick waves of yellow grain fall to the ground.

• 'Tis merry then to hear the jocund laugh,
• To see the noontide groups that smile, and quaff
• The foaming flask beneath the hawthorn-tree,
• Or where the flowery bank invites the bee.
• 'Tis merry then, through England's fruitful land
• To see the gathering of troop, and band,
• Not for the fatal field of deadly war;
• But the deep call of plenty, from afar
• Bringing the homeless to the social board—
• The hungry to the feast—the starving horde
• From the far boundary of Hibernia's shore.
• To taste of joy, and feel their cup run o'er.

• Such was the scene which met the farmer's gaze,
• And to remembrance brought his early days.
• Such was the scene; and he could feel again
• The joy of harvest; while the peopled plain
• Rang with the shouts, and echoed with the glee—
• The genuine burst of nature's revelry.

• Such was the scene. Bright mornings glided on,
• And through unclouded azure sailed the sun.
• But ere the fulness of his noontide heat,
• There fell, at times, a light and drizzling wet,
• That hung in pearly drops on leaf and spray,
• And scarce was gone before the noon of day.
• There was no wind—not even a breath to blow,
• And shake the moisture from the bending bough.
• And time passed on, and still the white mists fell,
• And deeper lay on shady bank, and dell;
• Till scarce the sunbeams in their midday blaze
• From their far height could glimmer through the haze;
• While loitering labourers watched, and waited, still
• To see the vapours vanish from the hill;
• Or nearer outline of the leafy wood;
• Or even the trees, that in the hedge-row stood;
• Or passing traveller; or horse, that trod
• With sounding footfall on the pebbly road.
• page: 272
• Yet vain their wish; for nature seemed to sleep:
• Her misty curtain drawn, so soft, and deep.
• And all grew still—around—above—beneath—
• Silent, and stirless, as the realm of death.

• “Oh, blessed breeze! when wilt thou rise again?
• Come back, and sweep this ruin from the plain.
• Wake, howling storm—come, billowy blast, and roar!
• And let us hear the stir of life once more.”

• Such was the prayer that dwelt on Henry's tongue.
• Impatient of delay, and bold, and young,
• He would have dared the tempest in its wrath,
• And watched the lightning shoot across his path;
• Rather than this slow fate—this silent doom
• Closing around him, like the fabled tomb—
• The iron grave that narrowed every night,
• And yet so slowly, as to mock the sight.

• Yet neither prayer impatient could prevail,
• Nor louder murmuring wake the silent gale.
• And o'er the steaming earth it soon was found
• Fresh grain was vegetating on the ground;
• And from the matted sheaves young shoots of green.
• Springing to life, in rapid growth, were seen.

• “It is enough!” the farmer inly sighed;
• “I have borne much, and have been sorely tried;
• But now I know—and, what is more—I feel
• I have no power to judge of human weal,
• Or what is ultimately best for man.
• Enough, that this is heavenly Wisdom's plan.”

• And meekly did he watch the ruin spread,
• Nor word of question, or complaint, he said.
• While others sank beneath the general gloom.
• His smile was brightest. While they paced the room
• page: 274
• With restless step, and brow of anxious care,
• He kindly soothed, and bade them not despair.
• Though his the trial—his the real loss,
• It seemed as if he scarcely felt the cross;
• So sure he was that Heaven in mercy sent
• This stroke, and would, if needed, still relent.

• Yet was the sorrow great—the ruin wide.
• Broad fields of wasted grain on every side
• Lay blackening in the farmer's weary sight.
• Till, when the morning dawned, he wished for night,
• When darkness o'er the world her curtain drew,
• And hid the desolation from his view.

• It was a year of suffering to the poor,
• And loud their cries assailed the farmer's door
• For cheaper bread; while angry tumult raged,
• And rival parties fiery warfare waged.

• Britain was then no home of rest to those
• Who sought a shelter for their secret woes.
• And where her laden ships at anchor rode,
• Hundreds embarked to seek that rest abroad.
• Nor burdened parishes refused their aid.
• Paupers, and people who had failed in trade,
• Farmers, and labouring men, wives, children, too,
• In crowded cabins sighed their last adieu
• To English comfort—never found again
• By those who sought their homes beyond the main.

• What means the change in William Herbert's home?
• Whence all the bustling throngs that crowding come,
• And force their presence into every spot
• Where fancy leads them, whether asked, or not?
• First, in the house, attraction seems to bring
• The thickest concourse—talking—wondering—
• Yet scarcely wondering either, for they shake
• The sapient head, and sage conjectures make,
• page: 276
• And say they made them months—nay, years ago,
• Upon the consequence of all this show—
• This lavish waste—this freedom of expense,
• So unbecoming to a man of sense.

• Thus, while they talk, the speaker's eye perceives
• The very table with its rosewood leaves
• Long wished for, and the couches made to match.
• Their cost is nothing. Other eyes may catch
• Those envied objects, if he stays to doubt,
• He sees the auctioneer, and calls him out;
• And soon the goods, for others' use too dear,
• Are made his own, and in his home appear.

• One day was spent in stripping every room
• Consigning all things to the general doom;
• Rich beds, and costly curtains hung with taste,
• Were soon torn down, and then as quickly cast
• page: 277
• Into their own allotment; while the crowd
• Pressed closely in, and lavishly bestowed
• Loud censure or loud praise on every hand,
• But most on things they did not understand;
• While some long treasured with peculiar care,
• Weighed in the balance, were found wanting there.

• It was a sickening sight to one whose eve
• Gazed o'er the golden fields of memory;
• And felt these trifles, by the crowd despised,
• Linked with her treasures all too dearly prized.
• Yet William Herbert stood amid the throng,
• And talked with some, but seemed not to belong
• To any. On his brow there was a look
• Which curious trifling never yet could brook;
• And many a tongue, as he drew near that day,
• Was hushed, and many an idler turned away.

• One day passed over, and the second came,
• And still the stir and tumult were the same.
• But now the stables and the cattle-yard
• Attract attention, and invite regard;
• And knowing judges, in that glorious field
• Their rival powers of eloquence may wield.
• Some stroke the graceful neck of high-bred steed,
• Or try the chaise-horse at his utmost speed;
• While others feel the fleecy backs of sheep,
• Or praise the slender neck, and shoulder deep.
• Next to the fold repair the busy throng,
• By the meek heifer, tell her lineage long,
• Pronounce, upon the ruminating cow,
• Sentence authoritative, sage, and slow;
• Nor know, nor ask, what feels the farmer then,
• While pass, from stall to shed, these learned men.

• Hard had it been for such to know the mood
• Of William Herbert, as he silent stood
• page: 279
• Gazing—no busy meddler questioned why;
• But gazing still, when all had passed him by—
• For there were names prolonged amongst his herds
• Through many generations—sacred words—
• Mary, and Lucy—well could he recall
• How, when, and where, they had been given to all;
• And childish fancy had been pleased to hear
• Strange application of those names so dear;
• And one had smiled, who ne'er would smile again.
• Away! away! ye bitter thoughts of pain!
• That thrilling touch the spell of memory broke,
• And from his dream of by-gone days he woke.

• On the third morning met that crowd again,
• Trampling the garden walks—the grassy plain
• That used to lie, in velvet beauty green,
• The Grecian portal and tall trees between.
• And now they search around, and drag to view
• All implements of husbandry; all new,
• page: 280
• And rare inventions, framed by modern skill,
• The earth to pulverize, the drain to fill.
• Wagons, and carts, and carriages were there,
• Curious machines, contrived the roots to tear
• Of poisonous weeds; besides all patent tools
• That e'er were formed on scientific rules.
• Yet few there were amid that wondering throng
• Who knew how much of science might belong
• To such familiar purpose; or the use
• Of those strange things that ignorance might abuse.

• And great the loss that consequently fell
• Upon this property, though loved so well,
• And bought so eagerly each part had been;
• Now cast aside, like things that scarce were seen.

• And calmly William Herbert watched the whole,
• Yet felt those weary days of trial roll
• Like troubled waters o'er his sinking soul.
• page: 281
• He was alone, for younger hearts had been
• Less patient, or less firm, to bear that scene.
• Henry was busy at the neighbouring port,
• Where they were both accustomed to resort
• To sell their produce; but his errand now
• Cast a far different look upon his brow.
• Martha had kindly offered to the rest
• Her hospitable home, where many a guest
• Found peace and comfort. Could they ask for more?
• Blessing was hers, in basket and in store,
• For she had followed, not her woman's whim,
• Nor fashion's ignis fatuus, vague, and dim;
• But justice first had ruled with equal sway
• Her guarded conduct, through each untried way;
• Then generous feeling, with exhaustless store,
• Followed, and strewed with flowers her pathway o'er.
• This was the real luxury of life
• To her, the recompense for all its strife.
• And she had pleaded with her father oft
• By strongest argument, persuasion soft,
• page: 282
• And all the touching eloquence of love,
• Now in his trying hour, to let her prove
• The blest experience of a real friend;
• Through life's decline her kindness to extend;
• As he had cherished her in early youth,
• To guard his hoary hairs with tenderness and truth.

• It might not be. He smiled, and shook his head.
• “My child, I have another path to tread—
• A sterner path; yet willingly I go.
• Stay not my steps, and check thy tears of woe.
• Though waves may flow between us, deep, and wide,
• Nor time, nor space, affection can divide.
• The same eternal Father will look down
• Upon us both, our separate bliss to crown;
• And prayer will find us at the mercy-seat,
• Morning and evening, in communion sweet.”

• Matilda Herbert, when retrenchment threw
• Its chains around her, quietly withdrew,
• And left a home ill suited to her taste,
• For one, by greater elegancies graced.
• 'Twas then arranged, to spare all needless pain,
• That Helen with her sister should remain;
• Yet sore the conflict to her generous breast
• Before she yielded, or believed it best.
• And all the while these mournful plans were laid,
• Emma bemoaned her fate, and would have stayed
• With her young babe, but that some sense prevailed
• Of common duty. So she sate, and wailed,
• And wore away each day with vain complaint,
• Deaf to all reason, and beyond restraint.

• And now when April skies again looked bright,
• And bursting buds just opening to the sight
• Spotted the spray with little gems of green,
• And here the yellow daffodil was seen,
• page: 284
• And there the primrose, with her moonlight hue,
• Spread her pale stars of beauty to the view;
• A lonely man, in musing posture, stood,
• His shoulder leaning on the knotted wood
• That formed, in days gone by, a garden bower,
• Wreathed all around with many a lovely flower.
• He gazes on the walks, the trees, the grass;
• And musing still, uncounted moments pass.
• Lost in his dream, he has begun to bind
• The broken stems of ivy, and to wind
• The wandering honeysuckle round the tree,
• Where once its odorous garlands hung so free.
• Why fall those branches from his drooping hand?
• At once he seems to feel, and understand
• Such task is vain; for never more to him
• Shall bloom those flowers, or wave that leafy stem.

• He passes from the garden to the hall,
• But will not enter, since he may not call
• page: 285
• That home his own. He hastens through the yard,
• Where stranger voices from the door are heard,
• And the new occupants seem all alive,
• Like restless bees, rejoicing in their hive.
• He looked not back; it was enough to know
• That they were strangers, and that he must go.
• Yet did he linger where no eye could see
• Along the silent fields, beneath the tree
• He planted in his youth, when life was fair,
• And his smooth brow was all untouched by care.
• What sound is that which bursts upon his ear?
• What footsteps bound along the hedge-row near?
• His favourite horse, the one he loved to ride
• In the short heyday of his worldly pride.

• “Go, happy steed!” he said, and stroked its mane.
• “Go, happy steed, to yon green fields again.
• My noble friend—the last to meet me here,
• Haste thee away! I have no words of cheer.”

• It seemed as if the ungrateful creature knew.
• Back from the fence his noble neck he drew,
• Tossed his proud head, and bounding o'er the sward,
• Spurned with disdain all token of regard.

• And now the farmer reached the shady lane,
• And saw the village spire, and heard again
• Its chiming bells, that struck upon his ear
• Like voices loved in childhood, and still dear.
• It was the sunset hour, and evening threw
• O'er every western slope a golden hue,
• While village labourers, wending slowly home,
• Sought their own cottage, ere the twilight gloom.
• And ere that hour, had William Herbert found
• One lowly spot of consecrated ground
• To him most sacred, where a peaceful mound
• More newly made, beside a greener grave,
• Taught him how vain was human help to save.
• To these he came; with reverential tread.
• How did he long to bear away his dead
• page: 287
• To that far home his weary age was seeking,
• Longer to keep the bond that fast was breaking.
• Here then he leaned upon his staff, and stood,
• Till the grey mist obscured the distant wood;
• And wished to go, but could not break away
• From those low graves, beside his path that lay.

• The sun went down that night in cold grey clouds,
• And widely spread the gloom, that often shrouds
• Spring's welcome form, and dims her cheerful smile,
• Hiding her beauty from our sea-girt isle.
• Bleak was the gale, when morning woke again,
• From the north-east; and o'er the grassy plain,
• And growth of early plants, a blight was blown,
• While nature wore an aspect sere and brown.

• But neither northern blast, nor blight, nor cold,
• Could stay the lapse of tide and time, nor hold
• page: 288
• Back from the sinking heart its dreary doom:
• The hour approached, and deeper grew the gloom.
• Nor came from far or near that welcome sound
• That hope foretells, amid despair profound—
• Some tidings strange, that will not let us go,
• Though all things tend to one sad point of woe—
• Some spell around our parting footsteps cast—
• Some voice to bid us stay, even at the last.
• Is it, that from the fairy tales of youth,
• We learn this lesson, rather than from truth?
• Or that the human heart would surely break,
• Did no such false delusive promise speak?

• Yet so it is; and Emma watched the hour
• Come hastening on, and still believed some power
• In heaven or earth would keep her from the sea,
• Whose dreary waters heaved so gloomily.
• Poor child! there might be weakness in her fear;
• Yet of all cruelties e'er practised here,
• page: 289
• 'Tis not the least, to drag from social ease
• From warm security, and pride, and peace,
• Across the main, such feeble things as these,
• And hope to see them bear their share of toil,
• When planted in a strange, uncultured soil.

• And Henry saw the injustice—felt the wrong.
• What could he more? His arm was firm, and strong,
• He would defend her from all touch of harm,
• And she must learn to meet the wind and storm.
• With other thoughts, he had enough to bear;
• It was his chosen duty to prepare
• All needful things—a task that suited best
• The ardent impulse of his manly breast.
• Nor his alone the effort. Many more
• Were gathering there, to leave their native shore.
• But they were poor, and hardy—trained to toil,
• And ignorant, too, how many a billowy mile
• Would stretch between them and their native isle.

• These are the men whose interest bids them go,
• Bids them escape from penury and woe.
• They heed not labour. Their untiring arms
• Pine for the exercise that cheers, and warms.
• They ask but food—food of the simplest kind,
• And natural rights, to keep the upright mind
• From servile fear, from base unmanly art,
• And agonizing doubts that rend the heart.
• These are the men who should be free to eat
• The bread of peace by industry made sweet;
• And when their country sends them o'er the main,
• Hers is the loss, but theirs the greater gain.

• The hour approached; and busy hands were there,
• And all had much to do, and much to bear,
• The weak to comfort, and the old to leave,
• Yet scarce a moment to look back or grieve.
• page: 291
• Fair rosy girls, the wives of yesterday,
• Gathered, and stowed their little wealth away,
• In that small cabin, where the matron sate
• With her poor babes, all ignorant of their fate.
• And still the aged parent came to see,
• With tears renewed, that scene of misery;
• And friends flocked in, to make confusion worse,
• And more confounded; till, with accents hoarse,
• The impatient captain bade them all depart:
• No time had he for sorrows of the heart.

• The hour approached; and Emma's faith grew faint,
• And faint alike her accents of complaint.
• Her lip was pale, and quivering, and her hand
• Relaxed its hold, when Henry's firm command
• Bade her prepare; for he had tried all power
• Of kindness to console her till that hour.
• page: 292
• And now, while fled the life-blood from her cheek,
• And sank her voice as if no more to speak,
• He pressed one kiss of pity on her lip,
• And bore her senseless to the heaving ship,
• Placed her upon a couch with gentlest care,
• And called on Phebe to attend her there.

• Worse yet remained; for stronger hearts had now
• To meet the trial, and to bear the blow.
• All had been calm until the parting scene,
• And great the strife to bear that hour had been;
• But lovely cheeks had lost their rosy bloom,
• And restless feet paced through the silent room
• On fancied errand; though all things were done
• By Martha's watchful care long since begun.
• It was in vain to linger: time stayed not,
• And would have told the hour, had they forgot;
• page: 293
• But every moment seemed their last on earth,
• Counted, and valued now by tenfold worth.
• A sad procession through the streets they passed,
• No wandering look on either side was cast;
• And Henry waited in the tossing boat,
• While the rude sailor strained his lusty throat
• With shouts that vainly bade them hasten on,
• To leave the shore before the tide was gone.

• Well was it then that gazing crowds stood by,
• That seamen shouted, and that waves dashed high.
• It seemed to stun the agony of heart
• That William Herbert felt at last to part;
• For Helen hung upon her father's neck,
• Lost to all care her woman's tears to check;
• And Martha's sobs of anguish came too near,
• And too distinctly, to a parent's ear.

• Another hour, and from the heaving deck
• No form is seen distinctly—not a speck
• By which the vision of the aching eye
• Its loved and lovely forms may yet descry.
• But the long line of wave-resounding shore
• Stretches away; and soon are seen no more
• The gazing concourse on the peopled wharf,
• The sturdy boatmen battling with the surf,
• Deep-laden vessels resting on the tide,
• And prouder galleys moored in stately pride.

• The sun had sunk behind a dark grey cloud,
• The waves heaved heavily, the winds blew loud,
• And night came on, and still that fearless prow
• Its pathway through the billows seemed to plough.
• Cold dreary twilight clothed the earth and sea;
• But not the nearer forms of misery.
• For there were shrieking babes, untended all,
• And wretched men, who answered not the call
• page: 295
• Of helpless wives. Most desolate of these
• Was Emma, bending on her feeble knees,
• Pleading, with all the eloquence of tears,
• That Henry yet would spare her tender years,
• Her gentle frame, and send her to the shore,
• With her poor child, safe from the billows' roar.
• Then did she pray for shelter from the storm,
• And threw her arms around his manly forn.

• “Spare me!” she cried; “my aching brow is bare,
• And the rude gale plays wildly with my hair—
• That flaxen hair, of which each separate tress
• Thou oft hast counted in thy tenderness,
• Deeming no beauty like the cheek that now
• Leans on thy bosom pale as winter's snow.
• Oh, shield me from the storm! Thou once wert kind—
• Can fear or danger warp thy constant mind?”

• Why turns he not? That voice could once have won
• His ear from music. Has its sweetness gone?
• No; but he sees that distant line of shore,
• And knows, and feels, he ne'er shall see it more—
• That gentle slope—that range of wood-crowned hills—
• He sees them all—his eye with anguish fills.
• He had a Briton's heart, and loved the land—
• The very soil on which he used to stand.
• Proud of his country's noble name was he,
• Proud of her laws, and boasted liberty;
• And while he gazes through the gathering gloom,
• Injustice seems to mingle with his doom.

• “Fade faster yet, ungrateful shore!” he said;
• “Behold my tears! the last for thee I shed.
• Far—far I go, where unknown forests wave,
• And ne'er return to ask thee for a grave.”

• Many and various were the minds that met
• Upon that deck before the sun had set;
• And varied still the groups that gathered there,
• With every shade from sadness to despair.
• But William Herbert sat apart from all;
• Perchance to watch the billows swell and fall.
• No; for his eye is stretch'd too far away,
• And farther still his thoughts unbidden stray.
• He sees again the cheerful hearth begin
• Its smile of joy, as evening closes in;
• The same dark evening—such there used to be,
• When gleamed that light beneath the orchard tree:
• And he was weary, and the cold wind blew,
• But hearts were blending there, both warm and true.

• “Oh, dream of blss! what dreary gulf has come
• Between me, and this long-remembered home?
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• I see my bower of peace and beauty gone.
• Father, I bow—thy gracious will be done!
• Through the short years this failing strength may last;
• Teach me—oh, teach me to redeem the past.
• Grant me to witness, through this changing scene,
• Thy guiding light, the clouds of care between;
• Thy shield of faith upon my lonely breast;
• Thy gracious hand to lead me to my rest.
• Then let the tempest roar, the billows heave,
• I have no more a bower of peace to leave;
• In distant wilds my weary steps may roam;
• In realms of light I seek my only home.”