Read Ebook: The Original Poems of Edward Edwin Foot of Her Majesty's Customs London by Foot Edward Edwin

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Ebook has 252 lines and 40145 words, and 6 pages

The ferryman of Hell.

Dog with three heads.

Libitina, goddess of funerals.

A son of Jupiter, remarkable for his wondrous strength and numerous exploits.

The goddess of death.

The west wind.

The embalming of the body of Bacchus.

Goddess of the morn.

The moon.

"Stripling" is intended to signify its more recent discovery in the heavens than that of the other planets.

The World.

Goddess of agriculture.

The earth.

The superior and inferior deities and planets enumerated in the poem.

Of the interment of Bacchus.

Daughters of Jupiter. The Muses.

Wife of Pluto.

With their tremendous shouts.

Here follows Bacchus' agony.

The three Fates.

The three Furies.

The word "there," at the beginning of same line.

The goddess of Darkness.

A Poem, in Romance.

JANE HOLLYBRAND; OR, VIRTUE REWARDED.

BY EDWARD EDWIN FOOT.

Jane Hollybrand; or, Virtue Rewarded.

In yonder vale,--famed for its genial mould, Its pastoral beauties, and rare grains of gold,-- There, 'neath the shelter of a peasant's cot, A pair of rosied cheeks was the fair lot Of young Jane Hollybrand; who had to toil, To cook potatoes; cauliflowers to boil; To scrub and clean the inside oaken floor; To watch and feed the chickens at the door; To see the drowsy pig cried not in vain; To cheer in summer-time, or winter's reign, Her loving father. On returning home From his day's work, she'd say:--"Come, father, come." And, with an angel's voice, so clear, so sweet-- "The supper's ready, father, take your seat." Alas! her mother, Death had stol'n away Just when 'twas needed most that she should stay For her child's good. The poor man's heart was rent: The twilight hour was regularly spent In reading godly books, wherein he sought The Holy One, for help: then was he taught That sacred saying--life is but a span! And then he'd sigh, and well he might, poor man. Twelve years of sweet conjugal happiness, Had made their little home a paradise,-- 'Til that grim monster stretch'd his deathy hand, And marr'd the pleasures of George Hollybrand. Great must, indeed, have been the father's grief; But gaining faith--through pray'r, he found relief. He taught his darling with a father's care To spell, to read, to write; to be aware Of certain youths; who, from the village, found, Their way unto the cottage-hallow'd ground.

Corn.

Inner room.

About this thatch-roof'd dwelling, so remote, A blackbird chirped from its tiny throat Its rural anthem; and for this Jane gave The brown-bread crumbs, she'd made a rule to save. So came the pretty robin-redbreast, too,-- She from the leaded window-sill would pick With birdlike aptitude--so wondrous quick-- The frugal fragments of Jane's surplus store; Haste to her offspring, and return for more: Sometimes the pretty creature chirp'd in vain, But not when Jane could spare a crumb or grain. Throughout the months of April, May, and June, Forth came the cuckoo, and chimed out his tune Upon the sky-branch of the apple-tree; There, unmolested, perch'd he merrily:-- O! happy favourite, of the wing?d host, Where dost thou dwell--inland? or on the coast?-- Or in some dreary cave, where all is night,-- Belike earth's chaos ere God gave the light? Say--whither shall imagination trace Thy magic form; to hear thee chime with grace Thy rare ding-dong harmonious voice: Oh! tell us, tell us, that we may rejoice In thy long absence,--that we may obtain A fancied hearing of thy heav'nly strain: Ah! thine, indeed, must be a cherub's throat: Who taught thee singing, blest one? or, by rote, Didst thou, thy pretty self improve the note With such precision, that for miles around Attentive list'ners hear thy twofold sound? Thou art a sort of majesty in air, Without a crown, without a kingdom's care: When in July thou'st bidden all farewell-- Methinks I hear thee still in yonder vale; And long the joy to list thy voice again When winter's past, and spring resumes her reign.

Now in the spring-time of the coming year, When in the south celestial hemisphere Proud Horus mounted with increasing strength, And each succeeding day had grown in length;-- When April clouds their vernal drops had shed, And bonny May had made all nature glad;-- When that arch monarch had assail'd the moon, And bade her quarter in the month of June;-- Then in the garden, rearward of the cot,-- Thenceforth would come the meek harmonious bees; There trip from plant to plant, from flow'r to flow'r, A-gathering in their luscious golden store. Some day, perchance, when Horus waxed warm, The honied-host would sally forth and swarm: Their movements little Jane would watch with care; Would call her father, and again repair Towards the garden: then she knew full well 'Twas time to fetch and swing the tinkling bell, To save them winging down the orchard-dell.

A stone-throw from this cot, where ran a stream 'Twixt mossy blocks of granite, there would gleam The glowworm's beautiful and brilliant light,-- Whilst wandering in the silent lovely night,-- A living lantern in the darksome hours, 'Midst the green hawthorn and the wild-grown flow'rs, For other insects of its kindred race, Whose continent is but a little space. The rivulet Is oft obscured by Nature's ambient sward; Oft check'd; its reckless dance and frolic marr'd, And turn'd aside to till the farmer's pail For breakfast, tea, and to make home brew'd ale.

The ocean.

Not far from here, in this delightful vale, The venerable squire's old mansion stood, Surrounded by rich pasturage and wood; The squire, himself a rare good-natured gent, Oft at this dwelling, hours of leisure spent; Would smoke his pipe, and not refuse to take A crust of cottage bread, of honest make: The sweet demeanour of this youthful lass Induced his "honour" to go there, and pass A portion of his time in quiet talk-- In cautioning the damsel how to walk Through life's rough path; and whilst to him she'd listen, Her face would crimson, and her eyes would glisten: This frank old Englishman confess'd his pride In stealing forth from home; awhile to hide From those gay gatherings within his halls, Where fashionable folk make daily calls Their avocation,--there to bow and prate, And worry nature in its last estate.

The cottage.

Unadulterated.

The bishop of the diocese.

, in making obeisance to the passer-by.

A news-monger, or "bill-sticker."

Suppose him to be a pedler.

One sultry morning Lady Prew grew faint: So, to the cot, young Arnold ran t'acquaint His uncle; for, as usual 'bout that hour, He'd ta'en his pleasurable cottage tour: Surprised, indeed, was he to see the youth! "There's something wrong," he said; "come, tell me truth!" So then the boy drew forth, and 'gan to say-- "Dear aunt is taken ill; but uncle, pray Don't be alarm'd:" when lo! he 'spied the lovely cottage queen: Who, when she saw the gentle youth advance, Had thither fled, and sought t'avoid his glance: Her dark-blue eyes shone in that sombre light Like glow-worms spangling in the depth of night: He saw!--he felt a smart impulsive move!-- And from that hour he sought t'improve his love. The old man call'd the "lassie" forth and said "There, Arnold, is she not a pretty maid?-- She has the work of all the house to do, Yet always clean: come, Arnold, we must go." The uncle dreamt not that his nephew's heart Was smitten, wounded with love's keenest dart: He little thought it--that henceforth this girl, Of humble birth, would be so rich a pearl To his "dear boy:" it never cross'd his brain The youth so soon would wander there again; And there to press her tiny hand in his, And leaving in that hand a valued ring,-- That when she saw 't she might, remembering Some future day the giver, say--"Ah me! How oft I've thought, and still shall think, of thee! Thou art a treasure--O, thou beauteous gem! I'll kiss thee now and think I'm kissing him: Perhaps it's but a dream, yet shall mine eyes For e'er behold him in this pretty prize."

At Westonbury Hall, the "squire's" mansion.

Arnold Mountjoy.

Young Mountjoy now was nineteen years of age, Susceptible to love, and prone t'engage. His beauty, tall inclin'd, Made such impression on his gentle mind That he, with whom he went, wherever he stray'd, Without disguise profess'd he lov'd the maid. Three times, or more, within the cottage he Improved the hour, and with solemnity Pour'd forth his orisons. Love's rosy tint flush'd her sweet cheeks and brow As Jane beheld him, yet she knew not how Or why he lov'd her so: And now he kiss'd her cheek, and wept a tear To think the hour of parting drew so near: He thought at home there'd be no rest-- That dearest Jane would never be their guest; But still he thought--when many years are flown, And I am lord and master of my own, my Jane shall then Be welcom'd mistress at the old domain.

One of her poor mother's dresses.

His daughter's statement.

The Prews.

To Rollingate, flew swift, as flew the mail, From Westonbury Hall, the direful tale. Lord Mountjoy donn'd his spectacles and read! Then for a moment scratch'd his hoary head-- Inclined to think it never could be true, And half-inclined to doubt dear Lady Prew. But never could his lordship entertain The least degree of wrath, nor yet disdain, Towards his son;--"no! time, alone, will prove The best dictator of dear Arnold's love," He said--and thus: "I'll wait my boy's return, And from his lips the secret try to learn." "Love," said Lord William, "is a desperate dart, Not easily extracted from the heart; Wherein once seated, whether good or ill, Retains possession--come who, or what will: It is the buckler of the youth at sea, The beam of war which gains the victory: The soldier's hope: the banner of the soul: The great consoler, and the Christian's bowl. Where's the proud bachelor who'll dare to say He never lov'd a damsel in his day? Or where's the spinster, when she heaves a sigh, Can tell of none for whom she once could die?"

The seat of Lord William Mountjoy:--Arnold's father.

When Arnold Mountjoy bade the Prews farewell, It jarr'd the elder-ears, as doth the knell Of some departed child--lov'd, but too well. Alas! he's gone: the door is clos'd, and fate Had made the Prews the most disconsolate Of creatures. Yes, that morn, that wretched morn, The lady cried; the squire, he felt forlorn; And poor Miss Prew, she doubly sad as they, Could not refrain from weeping bitterly. As Arnold cross'd the park, he 'spied the smoke Uprising through the branches of the oak,-- A noble tree, whose sturdy limbs had kept The little cottage shelter'd on the left,-- Which spread its foliage o'er the gable end, And frown'd, or would, on whom who dared t'offend That little sacred dwelling-place of Jane. And, furtherward, he turn'd and saw the lane Which led from thence and thither to the cot; In front of which a small triangle spot, Was fenc'd with stones, crust from Earth's surface wrung; The fence was broad, and taper'd to make strong: Three unwrought beams were set within the close, With cords out-stretch'd, to dry the linen clothes: There, he beheld--whom he admir'd the most, Going 'round the inclosure; then from post to post, She skipp'd along, and seem'd attentively Engaged in ranging out the drapery. Now, stopping at a roadside shingle-gate, He invented an excuse t'interrogate An husbandman, in the immediate field,-- The nature of the soil, and of its yield; The owner of the land; and whose the mill, From whence the water-course which turn'd its wheel. Receiving in reply the man's best wit, Until he saw his pretty angel flit; Then, unperceiv'd, he kiss'd his hand, and thrust It forth towards the cot, pray'ng heaven's gust Might waft it o'er; and with it went a sigh,-- His last adieu! and turn'd away his eye.

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