The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales In Verse

T >> Thomas Cowherd >> The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales In Verse

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Enjoy true happiness and peace
In yon fair World, where pain not tears.
Are either felt or seen; where cease
All sorrow and perplexing fears,

TO MRS. H. BATTSON.

1847.

To you, dear sister, I would now address
A rude production of my rhyming brain;
And if it does increase your happiness,
Of this intrusion you will not complain.

Margaret, nine years have nearly rolled away,
Since I first met on at your father's place.
Well I remember, to the very day,
My first glad glimpse of your young smiling face.

More, I remember for, almost forlorn,
I was received well 'neath that friendly roof,
And such pure kindness unto me was shown
As put my gratitude to strongest proof.

May I not hope that our dear Saviour took
As done to him what then was done for me?
If so, your names are written in his book,
As an assembled universe may see.

'Tis now, when one not only dear to me,
But to you all, has reached the World of Bliss,
That I am led more clearly still to see
The grandeur which in our Religion is.

May I not hope that in some small degree,
The exercise of my poor gifts did tend
To lead the youthful, loving sisters three
Beneath Christ's yoke their willing necks to bend?

And now what shall I say? You are a wife;
A mother's joys, I trust, will soon be ours.
O, may you still in blest conjugal life
Find that true grace which evermore endues.

And may you live for many years to come
That life which none but Christians true can live.
Press forward now to reach your heavenly home;
A sacrifice to God your being give.

And may the Lord give Grace to one and all,
That we may serve him while we stay below;
Then, in due time He will our spirits call
To share that bliss he can alone bestow.

TO MR. AND MRS. W. BATTY, OF PARIS.

1847.

Brother and sister dear, my stay I prolong here,
While an effusion can flow from my pen.
May it you gratify, your minds now satisfy,
That I may have courage to try it again.

Do thou, my dear brother--for there is no other
Has a claim upon me if thou be denied--
Accept from me the lay I in gratitude pay
For services rendered when I was so tried.

When by great sickness low, I was some years ago,
Thy interest with mine was clearly as one.
For me thou wast striving, thyself wast depriving
Of needful repose when thy day's work was done.

In view then of thy strong affection
As shown to me, my feelings flow;
And, while I enjoy reflection,
I'll strive my gratitude to show.

I saw thy conduct with emotion,
Prayed my God to own and bless
What thou didst through love's devotion,
To increase my happiness.

'Twas then I sought thy soul's Salvation;
In prayer besought the Lord to make
What proved to me severe probation
A blessing to thee for Christ's' sake.

And now I see thee with thy wife,
Ranked amongst the heirs of Glory,
Partakers of Eternal Life
Through faith in sweet Redemption's Story.

A blessing this, which fleeting Time
Can not unfold in all its brightness,
As 'twill be seen when in Heaven's prime
We walk its streets in robes of whiteness.

Hail happy day! thy near approach
Inspires our hearts with joy and gladness,
Enables us to bear reproach,
Takes from our hearts much of their sadness.

Brother and sister dear, let us while we are here
Cling unto Jesus, our very best friend;
That when Death shall come we may soon reach our home,
And gain Felicity never to end.

FIRESIDE THOUGHTS OF ANN, MY FORMER WIFE.

Wrapt of late in solemn musing
On the checkered scenes of life,
Peace was o'er my mind diffusing
As I thought of Ann, my wife.

Pure in life and conversation,
Full of smiles and modest worth,
Showing calmest resignation
When sad trials called it forth.

Sweet and softly o'er me stealing,
Like a pleasant zephyr's breath,
Came pure faith, my sore heart healing
As I thought of Ann in death.

In her prime and beauty dying,
Full of love and heavenly joy,
Safe in Christ, stern Death, defying
Nothing could her peace destroy.

Faith and fancy both combining,
Blessings to me freely given,
Keep my soul from e'er repining,
As I think of Ann in Heaven.

TO MY BROTHER JAMES.

James, 'tis full time for me to write
Some rhymes to you in earnest quite.
I've promised long, and now I'll try
My promise to fulfill, and why?
Because you have a claim on me
Which, when paid off, will set me free,
To run awhile again in debt,
Which in its turn shall sure be met.
But this is trifling, you may say.
Perhaps it is, but trifles may
Effect some good; they often do,
And quite as often please us, too.
Who's free from trifling? I would ask.
To find out one would prove a task.
But then I candidly confess
That we should surely trifle less.
Well, let me see; can any theme
Be started? Yes, I had a dream [FOOTNOTE: Fact.]
The other night. Both you and I
Were standing on a hill so high,
And soon there came a mighty stream
Which did not leave of hope a gleam.
But suddenly a plank we found,
That brought us safely to dry ground.
Then I awoke devoid of fear,
And you the Moral true shall hear.

All mortals now are sailing down
The stream of time, as you must own;
And waters roar, and dash, and foam.
Then say--how shall we reach our home?
There is a plank, as we have seen,
And it is safe, most safe, I ween.
'Tis in the Gospel clearly shown,
'Tis by all Christians fully known.
We have its merits long since tried,
And glory in the Lamb who died.
Then let us prize it as we ought,
And serve him who our souls has bought.
For surely this our duty is
If we would reach eternal bliss.

TO MY DAUGHTER ELLEN, ON HER WEDDING DAY, MARCH 20,
1859.

Ellen, on this glad occasion
I address to you a rhyme,
And in tones of sweet persuasion
Would advise you at this time.

If full measure of enjoyment
You would seek in married life,
Make it daily your employment
To avoid what leads to strife.

Prize, O prize, both now and ever,
Joseph's confidence of love.
See that fits of temper never
Drive him forth from home to rove.

Should he show unlooked for weakness,
Hide the secret in your breast,
And expostulate with meekness
When you have God's Throne addressed.

Always aim to dress with neatness,
Though your clothes be e'er so plain;
Add to this your mother's sweetness,
If you would love's sway maintain.

Should yours prove a life of trial,
May you both still look above.
Exercise in self-denial
Strengthens pre-existing love.

I have found that constant blessing
Springs from troubles sanctified,
And when needs have been most pressing,
God himself those needs supplied.

To His care I therefore leave you,
Bid you lean upon his arm;
May naught soon arise to grieve you,
Naught to damp affection warm.

MURDER WILL OUT;
OR, THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE.

A tale of Jealousy and Revenge, by Bernard Gray.

Turned into a Ballad and some new Scenes added.

1854

[Footnote: I would not wish exactly to be held responsible for what the
reader may deem unchristian-like language or statements in this ballad,
as I have copied the original in such matters.]

Sullen sat in jealous mood,
A most brutal-looking man;
Purpose foul served him for food.
Against a maid he lately wooed
His dreadful purpose ran.

Long he sat with vacant stare,
Large his eyes, quite gray and full;
Fell in tangled locks his hair,
O'er his dirty forehead there,
Fit covering for such skull.

Stands in the room a crazy bed
And two wretched, worn-out chairs.
_That_ had rested limbs and head,
_These_ now served for _that_ instead;
Thus ill the villain fares.

Heard he on that gloomy night
Demon foul to urge the deed?
Would he tremble at the sight
If some horrid goblin sprite
Came his strong wrath to feed?

He would welcome as his friend
Ev'n proud Satan, prince of Hell,
If he would assistance lend
So that he could gain his end
In crime--so very fell.

She who thus had roused his ire,
Lived a little distance off.
With his jealous soul on fire
Cudgel stout suits his desire;
He has one stout and tough.

Soon he reached her shabby home,
Rapped aloud upon the door.
"Yes, John Bristol, you may come,"
Said a voice within that room
So high on the third floor.

Near the window, very sad,
Sat she, deeply wrapped in thought
And appeared but thinly clad.
Brown her hair, blue eyes she had
As e'en with love were fraught!

She asked the man to take a seat.
He "preferred to stand awhile,
Had been sitting much of late."
Now, as if impelled by fate,
He has recourse to guile.

Says she, "Glad I am you've come
For I thought you took offense."
Little dreams she of the doom
Hanging o'er her in that room,
Or she would flee from thence.

He her conduct now reproves,
She replies in innocence.
Softly he behind her moves,
Right behind the girl he loves,
In cowardly pretence.

Ere suspicion could arise
In the hapless victim's mind,
Up the sturdy cudgel flies,
Downward on its aim it flies,
And strikes her as designed.

Right upon her temples fair,
Murder foul has done its part.
Eyes assume a strange, fixed stare,
Flows the blood among her hair,
No longer throbs the heart.

Now the villain lifts her arm,
Now he finds the pulse has fled;
He can do no further harm;
Conscience sounds a loud alarm,
For surely she is dead.

Now he flees in haste away;
Shifts the scene again to her:
She is found by friends next day
Stiff and gory as she lay,
And they create a stir.

Quickly gathers round a mob,
Fleetly flies the horrid news,
Making hearts more strongly throb;
Women shriek, and cry, and sob
As each the body views.

Come the officers of law;
Cries are heard to let them pass.
Through, the crowd they forward go,
To behold the scene of woe;
Suspense now holds the mass.

Shifts the scene unto the sea,
Nears a port a stately sail;
Joyful seems the crew to be,
Dream they not of misery
From an approaching gale.

Swiftly comes--a dreadful storm;
Fast the rigging's torn away;
Broken masts the ship deform,
All is terror and alarm
Amidst the dashing spray.

Angry roars the foaming deep;
Death now stares them in the face;
There is found no time to sleep,
Nor would it avail to weep
In such a woeful case.

Lift they up a prayer to God;
Does He heat them in distress?
See, He waves his righteous Rod,
For they've on his precepts trod;
His might they now confess.

Two alone survive the rest,
These are clinging to a spar.
One with secret in his breast
Is by sense of guilt oppressed,
Which keeps his mind ajar.

Can the reader guess his name?
"Bristol?" yes, he was the one;
He a sailor soon became,
Nor felt any sense of shame
Till life had nearly gone.

Now Hell's terrors seize his soul;
Now he sees the murdered maid
In her blood before him fall;
Hears her for God's vengeance call,
And ask why it's delayed.

Feels the elements at war
Nothing to the strife within,
Therefore to his brother tar
His locked heart he does unbar,
To ease him of his sin.

Tells him how some months ago
He a harmless maiden slew.
Jealousy had wrought his woe,
Made him give the fatal blow;
'Twas very wrong he knew.

"Speak her name!" the other cries;
"Mary Markham," Bristol screams.
Rage gleams from that other's eyes,
As he at John Bristol flies,
To end his mortal dreams.

Soon he's by the murderer's side,
Now he fiercely drags him down.
"Here thou shalt no longer bide;
Sink, fiend! sink into the tide,
And all thy baseness drown!"

Loud and louder roars the wind;
The new murderer is alone
And has lost his peace of mind.
Will he seek a port to find
And there his sin atone?

Fellow sinner, think not hard
Of the poor remaining one.
He from proper light debarred,
Thought it duty to reward
Bristol for that deed done.

Why? He to the murdered maid
Was a brother by his birth.
His love for her did not fade,
And this journey home he made
In hopes to yield her mirth.

Shifts the gloomy scene once more,
To a narrow, crooked street;
In a wretched liquor store
Sits a man we've seen before,
Musing on things not sweet.

He might seem to view intent
Watered spirits in a glass,
For his eyes on that are bent,
But his thoughts are wandering sent
Alter that murdered lass.

In this street--the very same,
That most shocking act was done;
It had nearly lost its fame,
Yet remembered was the name
Of that pool maiden lone.

When her name was spoke 'tis said
Chilling honor seized the soul
Of both high and lowly bred;
All who heard were filled with dread
Which they could scarce control.

Seems the man irresolute
About the drink before him placed.
Now, his gestures are not mute,
Showing feelings most acute,
And such as might be traced.

Bodingly he shakes his head,
Deep-drawn lengthy sigh then heaves
His broad chest, for her now dead!
Bitter tears are freely shed
As he for sister grieves.

In plain sailor's clothes he's dressed,
Anchor blue is on his hand.
A woman's eyes now on him rest,
Who, with babe upon her breast,
Speaks him in accents bland.

"Does the liquor suit your taste?
Is there nothing else you need?"
From his seat he rose with haste,
On the floor his feet he braced;
"I'm thinking of that deed!"

Quickly swallows he the drink,
Then asks, "Is not this the street?"
"What street? Come, yourself bethink!"
"I will; yet from it I shrink.
Sweet girl, we ne'er shall meet!"

"Tell, good woman, if you can,
Where she "--Once again a pause.
Turns she now afresh to scan
The face of that most wretched man.
So very full of woes.

Anxious to relieve his mind,
Stays she still within the room;
Then says, "Man, what would you find?
I to serve you am inclined."
"Where met that girl her doom?"

Now she needs no other clue;
Says, "You'll see the place from here.
Fouler deed I never knew;
Was she anything to you?
Come, tell me without fear."

"Was my sister, that was all;"
Soft he said, then paid his bill.
Something seemed on him to call;
Speedily away he stole,
But not with ready will.

Radiant Sol is sinking low,
And Night coming on apace;
Roofs in the setting sunbeams glow,
And his purple tints they show,
Till he has run his race.

At this time does Markham sit
In that lonely, dirty room;
Heeds not how the shadows flit,
Asks not if such place be fit
To drive away his gloom.

Felt he quite constrained to see
That house, where his sister dwelt,
And refresh his memory,
Thinking what she used to be,
When he so happy felt.

Now he tries to realize
Scenes that harrow up his soul.
While, successfully, he tries,
Fancies he can hear her cries!
This does his heart appal.

Thus engaged, he quickly hears
Soft steps coming to the door!
This does not arouse his fears;
Strong his nerves, it now appears,
As ere they were before.

Timid hand has lift the latch;
One more man is now within.
Very soon he strikes a match;
Candle's lit! Can Markham catch
Those features--dark with sin?

Soon. But what a sight to see;
Eyeballs from their sockets start!
Trembles he convulsively;
Should he try he could not flee;
He's struck, as by a dart!

Bristol locks the door inside,
And scans well the room around;
His grey eyes are opened wide--
Who's that on the other side?
Too soon the truth he found!

Markham springs now on his feet,
While his eyes with passion glow;
Bristol's these defying meet!
Firm they stand, nor seek retreat;
They well each other know!

First the brother silence broke;
"Villain! Come you here again?
Who did your light doom revoke?
Died on not from my just stroke
Upon the stormy Main?

"You've the impudence to come
To the place she occupied!
Your foul presence taints the room
Which to her was as a home,
Till, by your hands, she died!

"You hardened wretch! Take, quickly take
Your polluted soul from here!
Who, for you, Death's fetters brake?
Satan his own child forsake!
He'll have you, never fear!

"Monster! you're not fit to live,
Neither yet to die, at all?"
Bristol does no answer give;
The torments no one can conceive,
Endured by his vile soul!

Again the brother spoke in rage:
"Think you to escape your doom?
Other story, I engage
To read, ere you quit this stage.
Stern Vengeance now doth loom!

"If there be no other way,
Law I'll take in my own hands."
"This you've done"--did Bristol say--
"At the shipwreck yesterday;"
Now Markham shuddering stands.

Said he, "Yes, I did it then,
And you are sent back to me;
You will ne'er escape again;
Trial will be but in vain--
You're doomed to misery!

"Mary, my own sister dear!
When I last time saw your face,
Dreamt you not of cause to fear
Murderer's hand upon you here,
Within this very place!

"No stain was upon your name;
Lively, modest girl you were;
Would you ne'er had felt love's flame!
Yet you had no cause to shame,
But bore good character.

"If I live, your murderer's neck
Pays the forfeit of his crime!
Loss of time I will not reck--
Nothing shall my ardor check,
Should he seek other clime!"

Speaking thus, he placed his back
Firm against the outer door;
As he had of voice no lack,
Shouted, till his face grew black,
And stamped upon the floor!

Presently the neighbors come,
While poor Bristol trembling stands.
Now they are within the room,
And proceed to seal his doom
By binding fast his hands.

Shifts the scene into a Court,
Near to suffocation full;
Counsel unto lies resort,
And the jury loud exhort
To make proceedings null.

Bristol's friends had paid them gold,
And they do their best to show
Black is _white_: as, when of old,
Satan, without _fee_, lies told,
To work our Parents' woe.

Let them do their very best,
There's a witness all must hear!
It is in John Bristol's breast,
And it cannot, will not rest,
Till all the truth appear!

All his quivering lips observe,
While he now attempts to speak.
Conscience cries, "Come, muster nerve.
You must not from duty swerve;
You shall proceedings check!"

He speaks; all eyes quickly turn
On the wretched culprit's face.
"I my crime most deeply mourn!
Thoughts of it my vitals burn;
I dare not hope for grace!"

Verdict found, and sentence passed.
In three days condemned to die;
Thus he's caught by Law at last;
Fetters bind his limbs quite fast.
As he, in cell, doth lie.

Now the Devil steels his heart
To refuse religion's aid;
"In that _thing_ he'll have no part,
It would but increase his smart--
Of death he's not afraid!"

Vainly strive God's messengers
To lead him to Jesus' blood;
"There's no need," he still avers,
And good victuals much prefers,
So asks, again, for food.

'Tis the night before he die;
Swiftly speed the hours away;
They, like seconds, seem to fly
To a Record, kept on high,
Against the Judgment Day!

Two--three--four--five! from the clock,
Sound like guns fired in distress.
Yet appear to give no shock
To that man, with heart of rock,
Though full of wretchedness!

Six! More dismal sounds are heard
Than the striking of the hour;
Workmen's blows loud echoes stirred,
Fixing scaffold--we inferred,
To rouse him has this power?

Not the least; it scarcely went
To the chambers of his brain;
Others thought it cried, "Repent,
Bristol, ere your life be spent!"
But yet the cry was vain!

Still he hardens his vile heart,
And hangs sullenly his head,
Seven--eight--nine--ten! Did he start?
No; but fiends from him depart,
And he will soon be dead.

Comes the Sheriff to his cell;
Puts the cord around his neck;
Now his feelings, who can tell?
Still he careth not for Hell--
But wait the Sheriff's beck.

Slow the dull procession moves
To the fatal gallows-tree;
There he sees no face he loves,
Though the people come in droves
His dying throes to see.

Now he hears the warrant read,
Bids adieu to all around;
Solemn prayer again is made,
And the cap's drawn o'er his head;
Signal's given; his soul has fled!
The body sinks to th' ground.

"I've followed him unto the end!"
Said a voice among the crowd.
Warning take! Young men, attend!
See the murderer's dreadful end!
It speaks like thunder loud.

THE FAITHFUL PASTOR.

WRITTEN IN 1854.

"Would I describe a Preacher such as Paul
Were he on earth, would hear, approve and own,
Paul should himself direct me."

COWPER

BOOK I.

I.

To the deep umbrage of our North back woods,
And near to Huron's wild romantic shore--
Where Winter's storms are seen in angry moods,
To make the Lake's waves dash with loudest roar--
Came GOODWORTH, twelve years since, and brought a store
Of Christian wisdom to those lonely parts:
To try if he could find an open door
By which to reach the settlers' sinful hearts,
And them inform of what would heal their inward smarts.

II.

Firm in his mind, robust was he in frame,
Of human learning having ample share;
With fervent zeal, love-prompted, there he came,
Pure Gospel Truth in meekness to declare,
And backwoods hardships with his hearers share;
He brought his loving wife and children four,
Who for their own convenience showed small care;
Who had with Christian heroism bore
A heavy share of trial several years before.

III.

These four dear children had been early trained
To take their part in every day's employ;
Nor were their youthful hearts by this estranged
From the kind parents, who did show their joy
In manifesting no wish to annoy
Their dearest offspring by undue restraint;
Aware that this might very soon destroy
Their influence; and who has power to paint
The ills which flow from this too prevalent complaint?

IV.

Think not, kind reader, I would overdraw
My pictures of sweet, chaste, conjugal bliss;
All I describe I've seen, and, therefore, know
I err not far--though some may doubt of this--
And deem my sketches very far amiss.
It matters not; those who have faithful been
In wedlock pure have often found, I was,
That a fair share of happiness serene
Upon this earth in Christian families still is seen.

V.

And such were those of whom I speak above,
For of God's grace they every one partook.
Their actions sprang from the great Law of Love,
So plainly laid down in his Holy Book.
All might discover from each kind, sweet look,
That they had been unto the Savior's School;
That they had seldom Wisdom's paths forsook,
But made the Word their only Guide and Rule.
This kept their love alive, nor let their ardor cool.

VI.

Yet they did not to this at once attain;
Poor human nature in its best estate
Has much about it that is truly vain,
And these were not exempt from common fate.
Some fourteen years before my story's date
They had been in the purifying fire
Of great affliction; had been led to wait
Upon their God who knew their soul's desire,
And brought them through, clothed in Humility's attire.

VII.

And gave them for their loved ones taken away,
What was more needful for their growth in grace,
And led them thus to make His Arm their stay.
In all their trials His kind hand to trace.
'Twas this that fitted them for such a place
As in these woods the were designed to fill;
And hence they always wore a cheerful face,
And bowed their own unto their Savior's will,
While with the Spirit's sword the showed the greatest skill.

VIII.

And such were needed in that settlement
But just reclaimed from the wild wilderness,
For its inhabitants appeared content
With worldly things, which did good thoughts repress,
And cause the Pastor much of sore distress.
In truth it seemed a most forbidding field
For pastoral labor, and it was no less.
But God could make it precious fruit to yield,
And be unto his servants constant Strength and Shield.

IX.

Now they had sought the mind of God to know
Ere they concluded there to settle down;
And this determined they resolved to go
To that rough place--quite far from any town,
Where rude log huts were very thinly strown,
And where hard labor stared them in the face,
While gloomy woods appeared on them to frown,
To find earth's comforts were but very scarce.
For such a step I'm sure they needed special grace.

X.

This they obtained, and providentially
Were led to find a very splendid _lot_,
Which fronted on that mighty inland Sea,
And is in Summer a most lovely spot;
A barren piece of land it sure is not.
This might be known from its fine stock of trees.
Now their good fortune gratitude begot,
Which was poured forth to God upon their knees,
While green leaves waved above, fanned by a warm, soft breeze.

XI.

A shabby shanty stood upon the ground,
Perhaps erected by a poor red man;
Fire-weeds and brushwood thickly grew around,
To clear off which they now at once began.
Near by the place a charming spring-creek ran;
This had its source in a high tree-clad hill,
From top of which the country they could scan.
The father and two sons with right good will
That shanty soon prepare, and they its small space till.

XII.

This proved a wretched shelter at the best,
For rain came through the worn-out roof of bark,
And for hard laborers was no place of rest,
While its small window left it very dark.
They speak together of a house, when, hark!
A noise they hear--a sound as of great glee--
The settlers in their breasts possessed a spark
Of sweet good nature, and now came to see
If they could not be useful to the family.

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