With speed he tramples o'er each field he has to clear
To reach his dwelling, where his mother waits in fear
His well-known step-for the accustom'd time for bed
Had long in measur'd numbers unreturning fled-
But now at home, he tells his mother all that's past;
Old Gilbert's kindness, Ellen's beauty-unsurpass'd
By those who move in Fashion's wide deceitful sphere-
Made up the theme, succint and forcible and clear.
Agnes, with mystic wonderment, received the theme,
Which round her heart, like the spirit of a fairy dream,
Nestled in tenderness, and call'd up other days
From the remember'd past, to fascinate her gaze.
Alfred had ever sought his mother's voice to guide
His wand'ring feet along Life's rough uneven tide,
Had felt, in sadness, all that mother's power to cheer,
In joy had seen her radiant smile benignly dear,
And knew that rank in her love's links would never part,
For Worth and Virtue sway'd the sceptre of her heart;
And Alfred doubted not he'd find in her a friend,
That she a willing ear to all he wish'd would lend.
Agnes, with watchful eye, perceived the sunny beams
That play'd upon her Alfred's face, like heav'nly gleams,
Whene'er he spoke of Ellen's pure and simple life,
Her graceful manners, and her home scarce touch'd by strife
For humble Poverty may rest secure from care,
Betray'd alone when home-born discord wanders there,
And yield content and happiness to weary toil,
Unfelt in sweetness by the lords that own the soil.
She felt a mother's wishes and a mother's fear,
For his success and happiness she held most dear;
She told him early love was ever warm and pure,
And if 't were not to virtue wed 't would not endure,
But shine both strong and glorious to pierce the breast,
As the sun's repose within the enshrouded West,
From earth's domain, that the "Visions of the night"
May hide the wond'rous forms that day beholds most bright,
And leave in place of glowing hopes and fervent zeal,
A heart possess'd alone of wounds which may not heal.
She ask'd him if the love that in his bosom burn'd
For Ellen Morris was at all by her return'd?
Alfred replied, he had not told her of the flame,
Which brightly kindled at the mention of her name,
But felt assured, her look and manner both had told,
She felt love's changing wand, with lightning speed, unfold
The portals that entomb the priceless charms of earth,
That hope and rapture both may feel a newer birth,
And roam the heart-unstay'd by wisdom's boasted power,
Which tells the joys of the soul as dials tell the hour.
His mother, with the kindness she had ever shown,
Beseech'd her son, in spite of every frown, to own
No other maiden than the one he loved the best,
And to the Providence supreme to leave the rest.
"Her humble rank may sting the proudest sons of gold
"Whose very hearts, like merchandize, are bought and sold,
"But to the mind unscath'd by Mammon's blasting creed,
"Virtue and Love beyond transcendently will plead.
"Mammon, now strong, now weak, may some day droop and fall,
"And leave the servile soul bereft of love and all;
"But virtue never fails, when wed to love divine,
"To wreathe new joys around the trusting soul to twine."
So spake the mother to her son with conscious pride,
That virtue would, in spite of gold, in love confide.
Alfred, with heartfelt gratitude, his mother paid,
And soon in vision sleep's enchanting arms was laid.
Day after day he'd visit her, the Peasant's child,
And win by slow degrees, with language undefil'd
By flattery-the venom offspring of deceit―
Her growing love; and oft, in some green-walk't retreat,
Where nought disturb'd their twin delight, but all would add
To make their burning vows more blest, their souls more glad,
They'd wander-fondly gazing in each other's eyes,
And sweetly dream 'mid Love's ethereal Paradise.
It was again to see sweet Ellen, and commune
With warm and thrilling soul, in sweet harmonious tune
With her's, that Alfred pausing, stood before the door,
When we diverg'd his earlier history to explore,
His Parents' lineage, his own fresh springing youth,
Gilbert's "Welcome," and Ellen's purity and truth.
He hears the words, "Come in," with mellow clearness fall From Ellen's lips; and then old Gilbert's hearty call,
Reminds him that the Peasant's daily toil hath past.
He enters with delight, and as the hours fly fast,
Along Time's beaten track, to drop in Death's abyss,
To wed the ages gone and leave their prints in this,
They talk together of the world's conceited puff,
Its golden shams, and even gods of such like stuff,
That share the idol offerings of a Nation's heart,
Whose people preach, and then perform a different part.
It's church, and all the credal schools that teach a way,
To flee from earth to heaven, on each Sabbath day,
Would stand in contrast with the week-day lessons, taught
By the same teachers, in the golden field of sport,
Where Competition drags each gamester to his post,
And craft usurps the sway of love and gets the most;
And honesty, while struggling hard to rise with might,
Oft falls, to rise no more, unequal in the Fight!
For giant Wealth stalks forth despotic o'er the earth,
To measure by the weight in gold-not moral worth-
The power, unjustly held and undeserving gain'd,
Which, with a wolfish grasp, is eagerly retain'd
By those of Mammon's flock, that rob the weaker fold,
Of health and happiness, and life as well as gold!
(The Peasant and his lovely Ellen, tho' below
The Artizans of skill, could still with them bestow
Their great contempt for all the shams of Church and State,
Which wealth upholds, but which a virtuous people hate.)
Alfred admir'd the Peasant's bold and truthful thought,
In simple yet in deep convincing utt'rance wrought;
He begg'd him to relate the hist'ry of his life,
And promis'd none but Ellen should become his wife,
And thought the old man's tale might aid his youthful plan
To search out knowledge, for to show his fellow-man
The path-where wisdom, truth, and God's eternal Love,
In majesty are garb'd, like the starry spheres above!
"My children, mine's a life of penury and toil,
"From early youth till now I've wrought upon the soil;
"These silv'ry hairs betray my passage on the stage
Of life, hath brought me to the rugged steep of Age, "That soon my mortal frame must lie beneath the sod,
"My soul with trust and hope ascend unto its God.
'Yet, when mem'ry unrolls her hist'ry-written scroll,
"And Life's past actions crow'd with speed upon my soul,
"I'm thoughtful of the wrongs impos'd upon our class,
"Which make us toil like slaves, for lordlings to amass
"The wealth produc'd, whilst we in silent fear repine,
"And still persue, from morning's dawn till day's decline,
"The Peasant's almost hopeless, drear, and helpless lot,
"In youthful vigour worn, in weaker age forgot.
"At ten years old my father placed me by his side,
"To lead the docile team, as he the plough would guide;
"We rose when morn, emerging from the sleepy Night,
Began to dress the world in robes of silv'ry light,
"And toil'd 'till night's dark shades in welcome speed would come
"To bid us leave the field and taste the fruits of Home.
My mother, torn with care and grief, almost outworn, “With hero courage labour'd on to mis'ry born,
"To aid myself and brothers to maintain our right
"To proper food and raiment, unsuppress'd by might.
"But she, poor struggler, thro' a maze of strife and pain,
"Toil'd on in waning strength, for years, almost in vain,
"And found her children still upon the yielding sod,
"In unprogressive feebleness condemn'd to plod--
"Thus, do the Peasant-slaves in mocking misery wait,
"Till class by class asserts its Freedom in the State,
"And savage Wealth, with grinding Poverty at hand,
"Lays bear the servile state of those who till the land;
And human nature shorn of manhood's noble might, "In rebel impotence maintains unequal fight,
Which, for a short and weary space, kept up too long, "Since weakness ever falls the victim of the strong, "Endures-and then, alas! a worse position gain'd, "Mocks at the Peasant's life-long visions unattain'd. "My mother's lot, oppos'd to female life refin'd, "Was moulded by the rugged hand of Fate unkind; "And we her children, e'en as childhood's weakness fled, "Would do our tiny share towards obtaining bread.
"Thus knowledge was denied, thro' man's unjust designs, "The source from whence is sought what softens or refines. "Our mother could not teach, save how to work with speed, "For she knew not its smiling joys, yet felt its need; "She ne'er had known those graceful arts her sex employ, "When circumstance gives birth to pure domestic joy"But cleanliness, 'mid evils great of every kind,
"Would weave its blessings in her humble home and mind; "And tho' opprest by ill-paid toil and sequent care, "We still, in happy smiles, each other's love would share, "And by affection's guiding finger learn the way, "To soothe domestic grief and drive despair away. "But health, in time, forsook our mother's wasting powers "Disease perform'd its blasting share to steal the hours, "And cause, in premature decay, her life to sink, "And with enfeebling grasp retain each yielding link, "Which one by one, as earnest thought and feeling fly, "Gave way, and left us all in grief to see her die.
"For many nights, in weary sadness, from the farm, "I'd journey home, to seek my pillow's yielding balm, "But find instead, a mournful sickness o'er me creep, "To probe my wounded soul, and rob my eyes of sleep ;"For all the hours of gladness pass'd in social pride "Around our wood-strewn hearth, when seated side by side, "Contentment lent her angel smile to cloud despair, "And yield to poverty a short abode from care, "Would come again in mem'ry fresh to mock my woe, "And teach how soon may pass the things we love below. Misfortune, with its cold and life-absorbing breath, "Could not do worse, methought, than cause my mother's death. "So months flew past-the same appearance mark'd the spot, "Which lay in fragrant beauty round our humble cot, "When news, deliver'd by an almost breathless swain, "In dreadful horror, brief and unexpected came. "In healthful vigour at the usual time to start, "We all went forth that day, each to perform his part, "Father had linger'd later than us all at night, "And in expectation, by the dull candle's light, "We waited 'till the Peasant messenger of Fate, "Began his brief tirade of sorrow to relate
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