The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales In Verse

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

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The husband was an honest man
Working hard on working days,
Deeming it the wisest plan.
Each day's labor he began
By pure prayer to God always.

We shall call them HUMBLEWORTH;
They such name deserved quite well.
In that country of the north
All would speak their praises forth,
With delight their worth would tell.

Three dear children graced their home,
Lovely were they in their youth.
When they chanced in woods to roam,
Fairies seemed they to become;
Full their hearts of love and truth.

AMIE, BESS and little ANN
We their names at present call;
AMIE'S bloom was richer than
Any rose which zephyrs fan.
She had, too, a lovely soul.

BESS was as a lily pale,
Graceful as a fawn could be.
She was never very hale,
Parents' eyes could see her fail,
And they felt anxiety.

Little ANN, a chubby lass,
Was the youngest and the pet;
Friends all thought naught could surpass
That sweet child in loveliness
Which they in their lives had met.

I have said that they were poor.
This was true of worldly things;
Yet they had an ample store,
They were skilled in Bible lore;
And from this sweet comfort springs.

Very close observers might
Deem them once of higher rank,
They defrauded of their right,
But still blest with gospel light,
Of rich consolation drank.

Near them lived a proud, rich man,
Wide his lands, but small his heart.
Of him a report there ran
That he to be rich began
Practicing a knavish part.

"GRIPEY" was the name he bore
'Mongst the country people round;
They could reckon up a score
Of vile actions, if not more,
And from these this name they found.

Call I him "SIR FINGERNEED,"
Such a name is more genteel;
Had he done one worthy deed
I would not withold the meed
Of sweet praise I truly feel.

He had but an only son,
WILLIAM was his given name;
He to love had not begun,
Yet at times he liked to run
In the woods when AMIE came.

There for her he'd try to find
Hazel nuts and berries, too.
Thus he showed his heart was kind--
That he had no churlish mind
When such actions he could do.

Time flew past; poor BESSIE lay--
On her humble dying bed.
Parents now beside her pray,
AMIE watches her by day--
Moving round with softest tread.

WILLIAM oft some dainty brought
To her by his mother sent,
And returned with sober thought,
Musing as each mortal ought
On a death-bed scene intent.

He had heard fair AMIE speak
Of a place above the sky,
Where dear BESS with spirit meek
Would be taken, though so weak,
If at present she should die.

Now he reaches that fine place
Where he and his parents live.
Marks of sadness on his face
Make his father wish to trace
What could him such trouble give.

WILLIAM, not inclined to guile,
Did the truth at once disclose.
This creates a scornful smile
On that rich man's face the while,
Then unto his wife he goes,

And in stern and angry mood
Asks her why she sent the boy;
Did she call that doing good
Sending one of gentler blood,
Just to watch a cottar die?

He no reasons deigns to hear,
Bids the boy not go again.
WILLIAM drops a silent tear
While his parent still is near,
Yet strict silence does maintain.

BESS has left this earthly scene,
Sorrow therefore fills that home.
They have to the churchyard been,
And its clods are now between
Them and charming BESSIE'S form.

They were not alone in grief,
WILLIAM sorrowed much at heart,
Knew not yet the saint's belief,
And most slowly came relief
To remove from him his smart.

Those who seek to curb the mind
Of their offspring in their youth,
Should show reason why they bind,
Clothed in language very kind,
Lest they tempt them from the truth.

Soon the youth began to feel
Galled by most unjust restraint,
And did oft in secret steal
To enquire of AMIE'S weal,
And to her would make complaint.

Then she told her father all.
Calm but firm was his reply:--
"WILLIAM shall no longer call;
Some great ill might him befall,
And he must himself deny."

This AMELIA saw was right
And informed the gentle boy.
Tears bedimmed his eyes that night
For the loss of his delight,
Which would all his peace destroy.

Said he now, "I will refrain
From my visits, AMIE dear,
If you'll true to me remain
Till I can consent obtain
From my father, whom I fear."

AMIE blushed, her word did pledge.
WILLIAM snatched a parting kiss
As he swiftly climbs the hedge,
Fairest dreams his mind engage
For he tastes of lovers' bliss.

Pass we o'er five tedious years.
Years which saw great changes come
To some thousands in all spheres,
Raised by hopes or sunk by fears,
Now alive, or in the tomb

WILLIAM had just come from school
Summoned to his father's bed
On an Autumn evening cool.
Now dread thoughts began to rule
Him who lay just like the dead.

Why that start, that vacant stare?
Does he know his son is by?
Guilty conscience who can bear?
Hope shut out or blank Despair,
When one's latter end is nigh?

Stood the youth with tearful eyes
Fixed upon the dying man.
He would speak, but when he tries
His young soul within him dies
As he views that face so wan.

Speaks the father now at last,
"WILLIAM, listen to my tale.
I through dreadful crime have passed,
But while life is ebbing fast
Now to you I would unveil

"My base heart, if yet I may
In some measure crime atone.
It is thirty years this day
Since a _Will_ I made away,
To gain riches not my own.

"Him I wronged is HUMBLEWORTH,
Long a neighbor near this house:
His my wealth by right of birth;
All I own upon this earth
Is my family--and disgrace.

"I would make amends to him,
But grim death now shakes his dart;
Breathing fails me, eyes grow dim,
Spectres 'fore my vision skim,
And with terrors fill my heart.

"List, my son, your's be the task,
When I'm past this earthly scene,
Pardon for my sin to ask,
My vile conduct to unmask,
And make known what I have been.

"But, my boy, in pity spare,
Spare your mother's feelings dear.
Warning take, from me, nor dare
Sport with sin; of that beware,
For great danger lurketh near.

"I more would say, but now again
Death's strong fetters bind my tongue."
Soon his struggles are in vain;
WILLIAM'S heart is wrung with pain,
And his nerves are all unstrung.

Startling groans break on his ear
Now that ill-spent life has fled.
WILLIAM sees his mother near
And attempts her heart to cheer,
As she sinks upon the bed.

Seems this stroke too hard to bear.
In the lack of Christian hope,
Her weak heart from grief and care
Droops too soon to dire despair;
With such foe she cannot cope.

Now the youth feels greatest need
To curb well his ardent grief,
Calls he loud for help with speed.
His commands the servants heed,
They obey his mandates brief.

First the mistress they convey
To her room and lay her down.
There would WILLIAM with her stay,
But he could not brook delay
Till his father's crime he own.

Goes he to the house once more
Where his dear AMELIA lives.
With a heart most truly sore,
Reaches he the cottage door,
Knocks; no one admittance gives.

Why is all so still around?
This place they did occupy!
"Where can HUMBLEWORTHS be found?"
Asks he loud, nor heeds the sound
Of man's footsteps passing by.

Turns the man in haste his head
And the youth does recognize,
Tells him, "In the lake's clean bed
Some one found poor AMIE dead!"
And that thitherward he hies.

This like thrust of dagger came,
Near depriving him of sense.
In his breast's a raging flame,
Calls he AMIE'S lovely name
As he rushes o'er the fence.

Down toward the deep lake's side
Flies he now with greatest speed.
Forms among the bushes glide,
Sorely is the lover tried
In this saddest hour of need.

Who can paint his grief of mind
As the lifeless form he views?
Vainly strives he peace to find,
This stroke seems the most unkind;
He all comfort does refuse.

AMIE'S face has lost its bloom,
Though her countenance is fair.
Little ANN within the room
Deeply shares the general gloom,
In a dim lit corner there.

Some make efforts to restore
That sweet girl they loved so well.
Too long time elapsed before
Her dear form was drawn to shore.
Death has cast o'er her his spell.

Women kind now lay her out,
In pure white her corpse invest.
WILLIAM then, by nature taught,
With poetic feeling fraught,
This warm song to her addressed:

SONG TO AMELIA.

Still like to Luna wading,
Beneath yon silvery cloud,
Thy beauties are unfading,
Though mantled in a shroud.

As thou in death art lying,
Thy lovely form I view,
And ask if aught in dying
Has made thy charms seem new.

Say, wert thou conscious ever
That I to thee was true?
That naught but death could sever
The bond 'twixt me and you?

I came with heart nigh bursting
From thee to get relief.
My very soul was thirsting
To let thee share its grief.

And now this stroke has fallen
Like thunderbolt on me,
And my poor heart is swollen
With saddest misery.

Oh, where can I be flying
For strength and succor now?
If there were hope in dying,
I soon to death would bow.

But now my duty strongly
Bids me my task fulfil;
Thy family suffered wrongly,
To right them I've the will.

And then I would be leaving
Each bitter scene of woe,
Haply my loss retrieving,
If that can be below.

Thou wert to me oft speaking
Of God's sweet place of Rest,
I would that place be seeking,
To be with thee most blest.

Farewell, my young life's charmer,
A long, a last farewell;
I feel my heart grow warmer
As on thy love I dwell.

Calls he HUMBLEWORTH aside,
Speaks to him with faltering tongue:
"Father's sin I dare not hide;
Me he bade before he died,
Soon redress your grievous wrong.

"He destroyed your uncle's _will_,
When you were a little boy,
And did not his part fulfil
As your proper guardian still,
Losing peace of mind and joy.

"I'm prepared to give a _deed_
To you of that large estate,
But I strongly intercede
For my mother in her need,
In her sad affliction great."

"My dear friend," the good man said,
"Let some time now pass away.
I am not of you afraid,
His command you have obeyed,
Let us talk some other day.

"Go, my boy, and cheer the heart
Of your mother, still my friend;
See, I bid you now depart,
Lest delay increase her smart;
I will soon to it attend.

"Learn to place in Christ your trust;
Seek for pardon through His blood.
God alone can keep you just,
For we are at best but dust;
Naught have we ourselves of good."

WILLIAM hastens to the Hall
With a somewhat easier mind.
Fearing that it might appal
Mother's heart, he tells not all
That befel their friends so kind.

Now an inquest has been held
O'er AMELIA'S corpse so fair,
Tears have from their fountains welled,
Grief immoderate has been quelled,
Which has brought of peace a share.

Now arrangements have been made
Suiting all who are concerned.
HUMBLEWORTHS such love displayed,
As proved all that I have said,
Showing in whose school they learned.

To the Hall, as theirs of right,
All the family removed;
And they strove with all their might
To make the widow's burden light,
For she was by them, beloved.

As assistant on the farm
WILLIAM proved of greatest use.
With a heart both young and warm,
He soon found that ANNIE'S charm
For lost time was some excuse.

Why should I prolong this tale?
All my object may divine.
Christian love will still prevail
O'er its foes when they assail,
And it will forever shine.

MY GARDEN

I have a little garden plot,
'Tis very small indeed;
But yet it is a pleasant spot,
And plenty large enough, I wot,
When out-door work I need.

Two woodbines flourish at my door,
And climb above its porch;
One yields of grateful scent a store,
One flowers till all the summer's o'er
And winter days approach.

And o'er the walls grape vines are spread,
Which bring delicious fruit;
These also sweetest odors shed,
And please my senses till I'm led
To hold them in repute.

And then I have of peach trees three,
Which have begun to bear,
And 'tis a pleasing sight to see
My somewhat numerous family
All eager for a share.

Three apple trees I next would name,
Though fruit they ne'er gave me;
For this their tender age I blame,
And other cause I cannot name,
And so I wait to see.

Some berry trees I also boast,
And these of different kinds.
Of flowering shrubs I have a host,
Which did in cash and labor cost
What might affright some minds.

Four kinds of lilac here are grown,
One double flowering cherry,
And weeping _ditto_, not much known;
Eight different sorts of rose I own,
And shrub that yields _snowberry_.

Of lily yea, and crocus, too,
I've some varieties,
And monkshood, pinks, and violets blue,
Of double almonds not a few,
With two kinds of peonies.

Some polyanthus and foxglove,
Sea-pinks, and columbine,
Sweet-scented tulips, which I love,
Whose beauty has e'en power to move
A heart less fond than mine.

The daisy and sunflower tall,
Present a contrast great;
One like to him who, proud in soul,
Expects his fellow men to fall
Submissive at his feet.

The other, like true modesty,
Scarce lifts its lovely head
Lest you its secret charms should see--
Just like a lovely maid, when she
Is to vain-glory dead.

Sweet-briar and sweet-william claim
A notice from my pen,
For each of these can boast of fame;--
Are better known than my poor name
Among the race of men.

My hollyhocks and lichens fine,
Spread out their charms to view,
And other pretty flowers are mine--
To speak whose praises I incline,
If but their names I knew.

Of annuals I have but few,
That fact I fully grant;
Yet I have larkspur, pink and blue,
And double poppies of rich hue.
To serve me while the summer's new
I've beds of rhubarb plant.

Some household herbs and fragrant thyme,
With lettuce, sage, and mint,
Complete my stock; but had I time
A lingering lesson swells my rhyme
With many a moral hint.

That as we rear in summer's glow.
Herbs, fruits and flowerets fair,
So may we in our natures grow
Sweet flowers that may hereafter blow
In Heaven's serener air.

The Inebriate's Daughter's Appeal to Her Father.

One frosty night in bright moonlight,
I left my cheerful home;
My thoughts were such I cared not much
Which way I chanced to roam.
With firmest tread my way I thread
Through many a winding street
When drunkard's voice in tones not choice,
My startled ear did meet.

He cursed a girl whose hair in curl
Bespoke a tidy mother;
Whose clothes, though plain, wore not a stain,
Yet grief her words did smother
Her beauteous eyes told then no lies
While she looked at the man.
As nature brought the words she sought,
She this appeal began:

"Oh, father, leave this wretched place,
And hasten home with me;
For mother and the darling babe
Are in sad misery!
They have not tasted any food
Since morn of yesterday.
Yet you should hear that mother dear
For blessings on you pray.

"For when she prays aloud for you,
Her tears they flow apace,
And deepest crimson doth suffuse
Her ever lovely face.
She says that she must leave us all
Before 'tis very long,
To go to yonder Heaven above,
And join in Angel's song.

"And when she looks at our dear babe
Her tears flow forth again;
Yet never does she, father dear,
In words of you complain,
But says that she will try to make
A happy home for you.
Come ill, come well, whate'er betide,
She'll loving be and true.

"O, father, hasten with me, then,
Before my mother die!
When I left home, your charming boy
Most piteously did cry;
It would have moved a heart of stone
To see the tears he shed;
His shrieks make worse the dreadful pain
In mother's throbbing head!"

The drunkard stood in solemn mood,
In riveted attention.
This strong appeal did make him feel
Most serious apprehension.
He took the hand of maiden bland,
And hastened fast away;
Nor turned his face on that dread place
Which had made him its prey.

They reached the house where that dear spouse
Was breathing out her soul.
From sense of sin he rushes in,
Nor could himself control.
Upon his knees in agonies
He cries aloud, "My wife,
Do speak to me, for I will be
A husband, dear, through life!"

No voice there came; the vital flame
Had fled, of child and mother.
He could not stay, so turned away,
With look that made me shudder.
That little girl with hair in curl
At last to him doth speak:
"My father dear, your heart I'll cheer,
And blessings for you seek.

"How We must pray, she taught the way
Who now has gone to bliss.
Nor would I be the least degree
In duty found remiss."
Her artless strain made him refrain
From purposes most foul.
In after years she calmed his fears,
And saved at last his soul.

To the Children in Mrs. Day's School.

1853.

My dearest children, do you know
That best of all things here below,
And knowing, you should always show
To one another
Which when received doth warm the breast,
To troubled souls imparts sweet rest,
And makes each near connection blest--
Of friend or brother.

This precious thing has power to melt
Man's stubborn heart, as I have felt,
Subdue all sins that ever dwelt
In men benighted.
If o'er this world 'twere shed abroad,
The soldier soon might sheathe his sword,
And God alone would be adored,
And all things righted.

What is this thing of which I speak?
It can be found by those who seek,
With willing mind and spirit meek,
Intent on finding.
It has its origin above,
More beauteous is than any dove;
Those who have felt it know 'tis Love,
And well worth minding.

Where was this love most clearly seen
My children you can tell, I ween.
The truth both old and young may glean
From Scripture's pages.
For there we read that Jesus came
To suffer death, endure the shame,
That he might free us from all blame,
Throughout all ages.

SONG TO BRANTFORD.

1854.

_Air_--"AULD LANG SYNE."

Thou lovely town in which I dwell,
My own adopted place,
In verse I would most gladly tell
The pleasures which I trace,

As back I look through all the years
Which o'er my head have passed,
Since I began, with many fears,
My hopes on thee to cast.

For that support which, under God,
I have from thee obtained.
Now through life's journey I would plod,
With gratitude unfeigned.

When I at first began my trade,
I was not worth a cent.
That small commencement then I made
With money to me lent

By one whose name I fain would tell,
If he would give consent.
On love like this I'll fondly dwell,
Till my poor life be spent.

His kindness set me first afloat
In business and its cares,
And thy inhabitants have bought
My humble, shining wares.

So that my needs have been supplied,
And a most ample share
Of true home sweets I have enjoyed,
Such as are far too rare.

But yet I have had sorrows too,
Sent by my Father kind,
To make me think, and say and do
All he in love designed.

And now I candidly declare,
I would not if I could,
Have altered my sweet bill of fare,
It has been all so good.

Our eight dear children growing up,
My wife and I behold,
And quaff such, pleasures from life's cup
As none can get from gold.

And whence does such pure pleasure come?
I answer, from the Lord.
His presence cheers our humble home,
And we can well afford

To praise and glorify His name,
While we do here remain;
And be content to suffer shame,
If but the Crown we gain.

TO ELIHU BURRITT AFTER LISTENING TO HIS LECTURE ON
"COMMERCE,"

DEC. 26, 1857.

[Footnote: It affords me much pleasure to be able to say that after
presenting these verses to Mr. Burritt he was kind enough to call on me
at my house, and expressed himself pleased with them.]

DEAR SIR:--

Pray deem it not presumptious in me
To give expression thus to what I felt
Last night, while listening to the poetry
In your discourse, as you on Commerce dwelt.

I know not if you ever wrote a rhyme,
Or framed your thoughts in a well measured line;
But sure I am your language so sublime,
Shows you possess a deep, poetic mine.

I listened with attention most profound,
As did the audience that before you sat,
Feeling as if I was on holy ground;
Which in my mind deep reverence begat.

And O, when you led us in spirit back
To Eden's God-formed, most delightful bowers.
Ere our great parents had endured the rack
Of sin-struck consciences among her flowers,

I almost fancied that I heard the birds
Warbling melodiously the praise of God;
While sinless man in soul-enraptured words,
Responded as he pressed the flowery sod.

And when Sin came, as with hot furnace-breath,
To blast the loveliness of all around,
And our progenitors first tasted death
With consciousness that they were naked found,

You did portray the scene so vividly,
Of their rude efforts at an uncouth dress,
That tears of pity from strong sympathy
Bedimmed my eyes to see their great distress.

And when you showed how God with skillful hand
Employed Himself to make them coats of skin,
I saw mechanic skill take higher stand
From this divine and early origin.

And O, I thought this fact should ever lead
Artificers to strive and manage well
Their several crafts; and show by word and deed
Their love to him who does in glory dwell.

Then, as I watched the progress made by Art,
And peaceful Commerce coming by degrees,
I felt it was your mission to impart
To this war-ravaged world such views as these.

My gladsome soul did to such views respond,
And utterance found before my God in prayer.
Hence caught fresh glimpses of the time beyond
The present age, which shall such glory share.

Go on, great champion of the Good and True,
Spread wide the messages of dove-eyed Peace,
And may God's richest blessing flow to you
Where'er you are, until your labors cease!

TO A VIOLET. FOUND BLOOMING IN MY GARDEN IN DECEMBER,
1859.

Beauteous, variegated flower,
That with courageous mien,
Not heeding much stern Winter's power,
Hast let thy face be seen
At such a season, and amid such dearth
Of vernal beauty, I would bid thee hail;
For charms like thine to me have wond'rous worth,
When Summer's comforts fail.

I had not thought to see a gem
Like thee, as fresh and fair
As ever graced a diadem,
Bloom in the open air
After such killing frost as we have had;
And when grim Winter had his ice bolts hurled
With double vengeance, prematurely mad
As though to chill the world.

Still thou art here in loveliness,
But lacking Spring-time's scent,
And seeming in thy charming dress,
With thy lone lot content.
The while that other plants are dead to sight,
And waiting patiently for Spring's approach,
When King Frost's forces shall have ta'en their flight,
Chased by Sol's glorious torch.

But now I bid a warm adieu,
And place this in a book
Where I can bring thee fresh to view.
When'er I choose to look.
Regretting only that I tore away
Thee from my garden bed, where thy sweet face
Lit up with smiles that nook, and made it gay,
As by a sunbeam's trace.

EMMA, THE TINKER'S DAUGHTER;
OR, THE BENEFITS OF SABBATH SCHOOL INSTRUCTION.

1854.

In a wretched, narrow street of an old English town,
A roving tinker lived; one who would often drown
Of Virtue every trace, by drinking much strong beer;
Oft mixing in a fight, a stranger to all fear.

Right before his door-step, mud did the gutter fill;
And once to cleanse it out he never had the will.
The windows of his house with patch-work were supplied,
And all within the door by coal-smoke well was dyed.

In such a place as this, we would not hope to find
One of the human race with pure and noble mind;
Yet one indeed there was, whom we shall _Emma_ call--
Most beautiful her face, most lovely in her soul.

She was the only child of that sin-hardened man--
Her sainted mother died as her tenth year began;
The father brutal seemed to all the World around,
Yet never with his girl was he in anger found.'

And much his kindness told upon her gentle heart;
It soothed her childish grief, and made her act her part.
The lessons she had learned before her mother died,
Were now of greatest use, for she was sorely tried.

And when her father went to stay a week away,
She read her Bible oft, and cared not much for play;
But, feeling ill at ease, with dirt within and out
She whitewashed all the rooms; of this you need not doubt.

The gutter still remained, just in its former state;
That she could not mend, so left it to its fate.
But now she scrubbed the floors, and waited patiently,
Till came her father home, who smiled the change to see.

His feelings were roused up when he viewed the comforts round,
And wondered where the child could so much skill have found?
Then clasped her in his arms--felt now inclined to be
More worthy of his girl, and work right steadily.

About this time there came a Sabbath visitor,
Who had got youths to school, but wanted many more.
The tinker angry sat, nor asked the man within;
Said, "Emma read her Book, and did not live in sin."

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