Christmas at the Hall,
The Hero’s Grave; Night Musings,
And other Poems,

BY T. J. TERRINGTON,
Author of “WELTON DALE,” etc.

“And verses vain, but verses are not vain.”

SPENSER.

London:
LONGMAN, GREEN, AND LONGMAN.

Hull:
JOSEPH W. LENG.

To
Samuel Wilderspin, Esq.,
The Founder of Infant Schools,
The Promoter of General Education,
And a Friend of
Liberty and Truth:
This little volume is affectionately inscribed by his
Son-in-Law,
The Author.

Christmas at the Hall, &c.

Preface.

The author of the present volume has had for many years an intense and almost insuperable bias towards poetical composition. This has often been restrained rather than encouraged; but particular circumstances, that need not here be detailed, have from time to time compelled to the cultivation of the propensity, and made him desirous of striking out, if possible, a path into the literary world, or at least trying to ascertain his real strength in that arena. Nearly twelve years ago the poem of “Welton Dale” was written for such a purpose; but a want of self-confidence, and a perhaps unnecessary fear of unfair and severe criticism, acting on a sensitive temperament, caused it to be withheld from publication. As stated in the preface, its recent issue resulted from a conversation with the Hull Publisher, having especial regard to the printing of the present work; but had it been foreseen, at the time of writing, that it would have met with such a favourable reception as it has so far done, undoubtedly it then would have been given to the public.

This book was mainly written, and is issued solely as an experiment, to see how far criticism and public feeling may adjudge the author to possess poetic talents, which, if properly cultivated and assiduously applied, might be capable of producing works of a useful character and beneficial tendency. Fame is a secondary consideration with him, and he only desires it as an indicator that another sphere of usefulness and suitable occupation may be before him; for he has the feeling strongly, that if this publication should in whole, or in part, meet with encouragement, approval, and hopeful criticism, he should perhaps not be very long in producing something of a higher and more permanent character. The origin of “Christmas at the Hall” was simply a desire to link together into one piece, a few separate poems on different topics and in different metres, so as to manifest versifying acquirements; and it was thought this might be done in the form of a Christmas family party, as well as in any other mode. It was begun at the close of last September, and amid many interruptions, concluded at the commencement of the present year; but when the first half dozen pages were written, the author was as little aware of precisely what would follow as the reader will be when he has proceeded no further. “The Hero’s Grave” also was written during that period, and intended to be done, a considerable time before the Laureat issued his Ode on the same subject, or it was even thought that other writers would be sure to take up the theme. The series of sea-pieces commencing with “Dane’s Dyke,” were composed during the early part of last autumn, and “Night Musings,” nearly a year previously; shortly after which the other small pieces alluding to Christmas, and several of the sacred poems were written. Thus it will be seen that the chief bulk of the volume is of recent composition; but the rest of the pieces bear various dates, one or two of them going so far back as almost twenty years. Considerable time and diligence have been expended in revising the whole whilst passing through the press; but most probably some typographical and minor errors have escaped notice, which may be avoided in future, should the writer happily be called upon to gain yet further experience in authorship.

In the lower grades of nature, instincts and propensities seldom miss of their aim and accomplishment. But with man this is not always the case; and therefore the author places little confidence in those deep yearnings and instinctive longings to be a poet, which from time to time have, uncalled for, possessed his mind; particularly as in other things during past life, he has had to experience, like many other people, much disappointment, and much of that “hope deferred which maketh the heart sick.” It is not often that he has given utterance to these aspirings, and the only three pieces set apart to them ever composed, are inserted together, under a full confidence that they will not be mis-read, but taken in the spirit intended. The last one, “Love of the Lyre,” [page 176], originated thus:—The writer was seated in Dane’s Dyke one “balmy day of” August “weather,” composing the lines that bear that name, when so pleasing, so congenial was the occupation to his inmost nature, that he could not but turn aside from the work, and give utterance to the new feelings prompted—the little piece literally burst forth from him. The remark may be needless, but the lines on Wilderspin were composed long before the writer had any notion of possessing that relationship to him which he now so happily holds; and he sees no grounds in this for suppressing them. They were a tribute, during the early period of first acquaintanceship, which but feebly conveyed the deep sense then entertained of the excellence of his improvements in education, as shewn in his “Infant System,” and his arduous and devoted labours in furthering them as recorded in the “Early Discipline.”

In conclusion, if I am not worthy to follow, even at a great distance, in the wake of those

“Bards triumphant born in happier days,”

I have no wish to do so; but if the present volume merits encouragement, and still further, if it offers hope and expectation for the future, I trust such will be given me, so that I may have firmer grounds for devoting myself diligently and assiduously to the Muse, in order, if possible, to rise to something better,—a work that would, indeed be to me, a “labour of love.”

Lister-Street, Hull, March, 1853.

Contents.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring happy bells across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

...

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Tennyson.

Christmas at the Hall.

The morn was gloomy, and the russet earth

Gave to the eye a landscape drear and dim;

The clouds, low hung, seemed resting on the hills

Fraught with unusual weight, and cast around

Deep shades of blackness o’er each swelling peak,

By leafless woodlands clad; along the vales

The farmsteads glimmered, and the fields around—

Some grey with stubble, some with scanty grass

Pinched yellow by the cold, and some dark brown,

Where recent ploughshares had turned up the soil,—

A varied scene presented to the eye,

But sombre all, and sad. Not that the earth

Hath aught of sadness, but at all times gives

Some beauty to the mind, e’en when the smile

Of sunshine and fertility least glows

On her rich countenance, for then she speaks

In tones prophetic to the heart, and tells

Of secret strength preparing to bring forth

The gifts and bounties of another year.

The hollow wind moaned wildly through the trees,

And waved their solemn branches to and fro

In endless motion. Scarce a single leaf,

Scarlet or golden, olive or red-brown,

Adorned the forest, save where gloomy firs

Stretched their red arms, or melancholy pines

Reared their tall pyramids of foliage black,

Filling the dusky scene with deeper shade,

And adding darkness to the clouds of heaven.

The naked branches of the hedgerow elms

Lashed wildly round, and threatened to cast forth

The jetty masses of the old rook nests

Lodged midst their topmost twigs. The withered leaves

Coursed swiftly o’er the ground, and danced about

In strange fantastic coils, and eddies wild

Like whirlpools in a river. Heaven and earth

Foretel a coming storm, that soon will clothe

The naked landscape in a robe of white,

Until it shines more beautiful and pure

Than fleecy cloudlets o’er the sun-bright sky.

How calm and peaceful, e’en amidst the gloom,

The simple village looks! With aspect south,

From a hill-side of mild declivity,

It gazes sweetly o’er the meads below,

Through which a winding river, o’er mossed stones,

Makes pleasing murmurs. All the cottage roofs

Are clad with rustic thatch, and round their doors

In summer time, the climbing plants creep up,

And make sweet scented bowers. A garden-plot,

For use and beauty, is assigned to each,

Which industry’s firm hand, by pleasing toil,

Arrays in loveliness so rich and bright,

It seems a nook from paradise. But now

In tidy order they await the spring

To make them bloom again. Amongst the trees

That rise in stately tiers above the roofs,

Along the hill-side steep o’er steep, the smoke

In light blue wreaths, from every chimney curls

With ample convolution, giving note

Of snug warm hearths, and comfortable homes

Where winter is not feared. The lattice-panes

Shine clear and bright, and to each flitting ray

Give keen reflections, whilst their cheerful glance

Bespeaks the reign of cleanliness. O’er all

There broods an air of quiet and content

Of peace, of plenty in that lowly sphere

Where heart meets heart in pure simplicity

Unchecked by station, and unchilled by wealth.

Oh that the earth of such calm homes were full!

And such fair villages adorned the plains

In countless numbers, where the labouring poor

Might live respected, and respect themselves!

Who is a hero,—he who daily fights

The fearful hosts of poverty and want

With industry’s strong sword, and wins the spoils,

The honourable spoils of raiment, food,

And kindly shelter to make glad all hearts

Around his hearth. No stately cenotaph

Of costly stones is to his honour reared,

But yet he owns a richer monument,

Built up of kindly thoughts within each mind,

That justly thinks, and loves the really great,

The honest and the true. How much of good,

One being can perform, whose heart delights

To see all prosperous round! And here dwells one

Who scatters blessings with a liberal hand,

Directed wisely by a mind discreet,

That seeks the greatest good. He strives to give

Employment to each hand, and due reward

To each that labours. With new thought to swell

The poor man’s stock of knowledge, that his work

May yield a richer harvest; to instil

Instruction varied on his craving mind,

That it may be matured, to bear the flowers

Of pure and simple pleasure; and the fruits

Of profit and utility. To sow,

To plant, to prune; to plan, frame, rear, and build;

To watch the seasons, to enrich the soils,

And do unnumbered things to multiply

The simple comforts of their quiet homes

Have each been taught. And still a higher lore

Has thereunto been added; that which tells

Of man’s immortal destiny, and seeks

To elevate his thought to higher good

Than earth contains, and holier principles

Than this world’s maxims; that the heart may love

In just equality each fellow-man,

And bow with holy reverence and joy

Before the throne of Light; and thus become

More pure and happy, and a citizen

Of higher worlds whilst sojourning on earth.

And who is he who wisely ministers

To all the wants of poor humanity,

Each in its kind, and strives to scatter round

Throughout his sphere the purest happiness

That earth can own? Sir Arthur, at the Hall!

To him belong the fertile acres round,

To him the village; but he holds them not

In pomp and pride and narrow selfishness,

But as a man amongst his fellowmen,

Knowing and feeling that his hand hath power

To curse or bless, and with determined heart

He chooses blessing. With an eye that beams,

As with parental love, he looks on all,

The young, the old, and with a kindly voice

Speaks words of warm encouragement; or gives

The needed counsel, or the calm rebuke.

His words are ever welcome; e’en the churl

Who meets reproof, does so in quietness,

Straight thinks thereon, and turns him to amend.

All look upon him with respectful love

And firm devotion. Never hero bold

Of ancient feudal times, who led along

His faithful vassals to the battle field,

To crown them with renown, and win proud fame,

Was e’er encompassed with such fervent hearts

And such dependent zeal. He leads them on

To purer triumphs, conquests more benign;

They overcome not to spread round them tears

And misery and death. The wars they wage

Are with the stubborn soil; the wreaths they win

Are fruits and flowers. The triumphs they attain,

Are over ignorance, and want and sin,

Which bring their meed of pleasure and of peace.

The old Age had its heroes, and the new

Must have its heroes also. Men of thought,

Of knowledge and of skill, whose ample minds

Are armories of wisdom to supply

The need of lesser minds, and lead them on

All strong and mighty to the coming war

Of truth with falsehood. Times have greatly changed;

And errors and traditions growing dim

Flicker like fleeting mists. Their power is gone,

And hearts are yearning for the morning beams

Of pure, unsullied truth! When will arise

The mighty Prophet, radiant with light

To lighten nations; to lift up mankind

From petty sects and systems, groveling thoughts,

Vain dreams, false policies, and bring them forth

To bask serenely in truth’s cheerful light

United into one? Man’s heart hath hope,

By prophecy upheld, and though he long

Hath tarried for it, nigh two thousand years,

Yet now the dawning seems to streak the east,

All things are stirring, slumberers awake,

And watchers peer into the rising day!

Thus much in passing! Ere we enter in

That antique Hall, more fully to attain

A knowledge of its owner, all whose acts

Are works of goodness, and whose pure life breathes

The spirit of rich charity: We’ll trace

A ready path across yon meadow-field,

To where, in solitude and calm repose,

The village church rears up its ancient spire

Above surrounding trees. Its antique walls

Are softly tinted by the hand of time

With varied hues, all chastened and subdued,

But exquisitly beautiful. Each arch,

Each massive column, and each window quaint,

Compels to thoughts of long-passed, hoary days

And human ancestry. Oh where are they

Who reared that tower, and they whose voices woke

The first deep echo from those sacred walls

By sounds of holy minstrelsey? And they

Of generations, each succeeding each,

Through the long current of a thousand years,

Down to the last whose bones were hither brought,

And o’er whose grave of brown and roughened soil

The grass hath not yet crept? “They sleep in dust,”

“They slumber in the ground”—’tis thus we speak,

And by such speaking we in thought forego

The glorious truths of immortality;

The birth-right of the soul! What sleeps in dust?

What brought we here to slumber deep in earth?

The living spirit or the soulless clay?

That thing of thought, that seeing, hearing mind,

That living active being first had fled,

And left its husk rejected. This alone

Was hid in earth, to veil it from the sight

Ere severed by corruption, part from part,

And scattered widely to the winds of heaven,

Or cast abroad through earth. Then let not thought

Stop chained below, or buried in the grave,

But bearing upwards, as with eagle flight,

Behold earth’s habitants assembled all,

Contemporaneous in the spirit-world,

The great, the grand receptacle of life,

Where all live unto God, for he is God

Not of the dead but living. Each one there

Is gathered to his fathers, not of flesh,

But of the spirit. Like is linked with like,

The pure with pure; the evil, filthy, vile,

Are with their fellows. As the tree has fallen

So it lies. Oh contemplation great,

Sublime and aweful; yet enriched by hope,

Where faith is strong in God’s Redemptive love,

And knows his Providence, from evil brings

A birth of good. The sorrows, pains, and cares

Of outward life, oft deeply work within

To purify the spirit, and exalt

To holier thought and feeling. Let none then

Pass judgement on his fellow, but in love,

And fitting charity. The inward life

No human eye can read; or what that life

May yet bring forth. Then let us judge ourselves,

And looking round on things that make us mourn,

Console our spirits with the glorious truth

Christ hath not died in vain! Though in the grave

The spirit lies not, and the form of clay

Is soon dispersed amid the elements,

Yet in the church-yard, or the place of tombs,

Fraught with mementos of the ancient past,

Our thought is strengthened, and the links re-bound

That join us to the dead. We there revive

Old loves, and sweet affections, purified,

Refined, and softened; and go forth to life

More calm in spirit, and with brighter hopes.

The threatened storm advances—snowy flakes

Fall thin and waving to the half-froze ground,

Then slowly melt. They soon in quick descent

Must seek the earth, and whirling densely down

Shut out the landscape, and array the scene

In gorgeous raiment of unsullied white.

But ’ere this chances ’twill be well to seek

The hospitable shelter of the Hall,

And gain a certain welcome. Christmas-tide,

So full of joy and open-hearted love,

Finds there a liberal reign. But do not think

A few more steps will bring us to some seat

Of wealth and stately grandeur, whose high lord,

Just scatters round his superfluity

And blesses as by chance. No marble walls,

No colonnades, no proud magnificence,