PREFACE.

HE following Poems pretend to be nothing more

THE

than simple and unstudied effusions upon familiar topics, written during occasional hours of leisure. The youthful Author is emboldened to place them before the public by the generous reception which was accorded to a local volume published by him a few years ago.

Should this book succeed in ministering comfort to one sorrowing spirit, or afford the reader in its perusal one-half of the pleasure which it has given the Author in its composition, these "Songs of the Heart" will not have been written in vain.

Stone Hall, Wallingford,

JUNE, 1871.

W. B. A.

GALLANT knight went forth to war,

A To fight the battles of the Lord;

And on his breast a cross he bore,

And at his side his faithful sword.

A solemn vow to heaven he made

That cross to wear, that sword to wield,

The foremost in the bold crusade

That dared the Crescent to the field.

He prayed for courage and for might
To break the ranks of error down,

The battle of the Cross to fight,

And win the faithful soldier's crown.

With eager heart and fiery glance,
He went the heathen hosts to meet,
The first to lead the van's advance,
The last to cover the retreat.

His good sword's sturdy strokes ne'er tired,
His bravest foes beneath them bled;
His comrades, with new hearts inspired,
Followed the way his helmet led.

But vain the valour of his arm,

And vain his name of high renown, To shield him from impending harm, Or break the ranks of error down:

For, after many a deed of fame,

The victor of a hundred fields,
Whom single-handed none could tame,
To overwhelming numbers yields.

Wounded and weary, fainting fast,
'Mid fallen friends and foes he fell,
Yet battled nobly to the last,

With courage no defeat could quell.

They raised him senseless from the ground,
Where thick the dead and dying lay,
His bleeding limbs with thongs they bound,
And captive bore him far away.

They thrust him in a noisome cell,
By fierce and cruel gaolers kept,
Where scarce a ray of sunshine fell,
And scarce a breath of heaven crept.

Then murmurs in his heart arose,

He cursed his hard and bitter fate, And thought on his victorious foes

With feelings of revengeful hate.

But soon upon his gloomy soul

The dawn of brighter reason broke ;
A better spirit o'er him stole,
And words of consolation spoke.

For, musing, on his Lord he thought,
Who once the cross for others bore,
And on the fearful fight He fought,
And on the thorny crown He wore.

And, at the vision calmer grown,

His Master's praise so loud he sang, The heathen stronghold's walls of stone With songs of Christian triumph rang.

His keepers heard the joyful flow

With wond'ring ears and awe-struck heart,
And oft they sought the cause to know,
And oft the cause he would impart.

He spoke of Him who lived of old,
His loving deeds, His many tears;
And all the wondrous tale he told
Sank deep into their list'ning ears.

And, hearkening to that tale of love,
The like of which they ne'er had heard,
Their hearts, that fear could never move,
Melted beneath each gentle word.

And far and wide around they spread
The news the captive Christian bore,

And all the mighty truths he said

Were oft repeated o'er and o'er.