TALES IN VERSE ON THE LORD'S PRAYER

THE history of 'Tales on the Lord's Prayer' is as follows: Mr. Charles Ollier, author of 'Inesilla,' etc., proposed to Mr. Lyte the idea of illustrating the petitions of the Lord's Prayer by a series of short tales. The idea struck him as a happy one, and being at the time incapacitated by ill-health from pursuing his professional labours, he willingly undertook the task, and as he had much leisure, he resolved to attempt it in verse rather than in prose. When, however, the first rough sketch of the work was drawn up, the author was enabled to resume his usual avocations, and being called to a sphere of laborious exertion, he neglected the tales and consigned them to his writing-desk, where they would in all probability have still slumbered but for the kind importunities of those who had seen them in their unfinished state, and who urged their publication. The author likewise felt it to be due to the gentleman with whom the work originated that he should either publish what he had prepared or relinquish wholly the design, and thus afford his friend the opportunity of putting it into other hands, or of following it up himself. Under these circumstances he resolved to send his little volume to the press. He cannot assent to the maxim of a writer of the day, of whose talents he has the highest admiration, that the first intention of the poet should be to please. The author's first and great ambition in his little work is to do good, and he only aims at pleasing in order that he may be the more extensively useful. This object will, he trusts, plead his excuse with those who may think that things of grave import are sometimes handled by him in too light and playful a style. He begs of them to consider that there is a great difference between tales and sermons, and hopes that they will not condemn without considering the design and tendency of the whole piece. A favourable notice appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, No. 165, p. 686:

Have you seen a little volume entitled “Tales in Verse," by the Rev. H. F. Lyte, which seems to have reached a second edition ? Now that is the right kind of religious poetry. Mr. Lyte shows how the sins and sorrows of man flow from 137

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irreligion, in simple yet strong domestic narrative, told in a style and spirit reminding one sometimes of Goldsmith, and sometimes of Crabbe. A volume so humble in its appearance and pretensions runs the risk of being jostled off the highways into bypaths; and, indeed, no harm if it should; for in such retired places it will be pleasant reading—pensive in the shade and cheerful in the sunshine. Mr. Lyte has reaped

'The harvest of a quiet eye,

That broods and sleeps on its own heart;"

and his Christian tales will be read with interest and instruction by many a fireside. He ought to give us another

volume.'

TALE FIRST

'Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.'

HARFORD

'TWAS Sabbath morning; and the pleasant sun
From a blue sky looked smiling out upon
The day of God,-inviting man to come

And walk the fields and muse, where even the dumb
Were eloquent in praise, and dewy eyes

Looked up their beauteous worship to the skies
From every bank and hedgerow, and the trees
Gave song or incense to each passing breeze
To waft on to high heaven; for buxom June
Now pranked the fields, and set the woods in tune ;
And Nature, priestess-like, in full attire

Stood forth, and called on man to lead her choir.

I envy not his feelings who is dead

To such an invitation; who can tread

With unimpassioned step, at such an hour,
On such a day, the dewy herb and flower
All redolent of God-can look on earth
Young, green, and smiling as it came at birth
Fresh from His hand, nor feel as then was felt,
When every eye and tongue and spirit dwelt
On Him, when morning stars sang joy and love,
And all the sons of God shouted above

A new-born world, where the Creator viewed
His six days' works, and lo they all were good!

I

envy not the man who thus can share

Morn's pleasant sun, wild music, and free air,

Nor note the present Deity, who stands
There in His temple not built up with hands,

Whose footprints and whose handlings may be traced On every side now fresh and uneffaced,

And who from all around receives the praise, Which man, most favoured, most neglects to raise.

'Twas Sabbath morning; but not thus the sun
Reached amidst London's vapours dense and dun
The hero of my tale, and struggling through
The garret's skylight pane of yellow hue,
Shot on his bed a slanting sickly ray,
That just gave notice of returning day,

And roused him up, and called him forth to pass
That morn with Nature on the open grass.
I will not say indeed the Sabbath brought
To him these high emotions; that he thought
Of mingling offerings now with bird or flower;
That on such day, at such unwonted hour
He left his comfortable couch, and strode
So resolute along the City Road,

And sought escape from pavements, rails and bricks,
Before Bow bells rang out the hour of six.

He passed each nuisance of town's Sabbath morn :
The coach's rattling wheel and stunning horn;
The loitering groups collecting in the street,
With oath and jeer that blessed day to greet;
The drunkard reeling from the licensed sink,
Where his week's hire is spent in one night's drink
The tawdry harlot shrinking from the light;
And other prowlers of the lawless night,

Still found where man his Maker would dethrone,
And shut out God's creation with his own.
Disgusting all and yet he passed them by
With small offence to either ear or eye;
For daily use had dulled the finer sense,
That gives such sights and sounds due influence.
Sam Harford had behind a counter lived
For thirty years; was wealthy, fat, and wived.
Early and late still constant at his stand

With ready smile and bow, and yard in hand,

A magic wand, whose touch had influence

;

To turn whole bales to shillings, pounds, and pence, None more adroit to wield the shears or quill,

To measure, pack, or item up a bill,

Or deal neat phrases to each customer

As, Pray sit down, ma'am,' 'Pleasant morning, sir.'

His travel through the day was seldom more
Than now and then from counter to the door,
To just look out, and rub his hands, and then
Back like a pendulum to his place again.

Sam Harford's thoughts were like his steps-they moved
One plain small circle, whence they rarely roved.
The world and the world's business occupied
His mind, and left small space for aught beside.
He knew he had a soul, but why or how
Had never brought one wrinkle o'er his brow;
He thought there was a God, and had heard tell
Of Christ, and future being, Heaven and Hell;
But these were matters distant all and dim;
He was, and that was quite enough for him.
He deemed the Bible a good book, and those
That had the time might read it if they chose ;
Sunday was useful too, to check and state
The week's accounts, and keep his ledger straight.
But as for church, prayers, sermons, and the rest,
He thought the parson managed such things best;
He therefore left them wholly to his care,
And paid his tithes, and kept all matters square.

A ride

Each void

Still Harford's mind showed one redeeming trait—
This man of tills and ledgers, strange to say,
Loved Nature, loved the earth and skies.
On Sunday coach, a row up with the tide
On the broad Thames were life to him.
Of business was in one small spot employed,
Where a few smoke-dried flowers with sickly smile,
And doubtful fragrance overpaid his toil;
And on his busiest hours of care and din
Would rural hopes and visions oft break in,

And he would pause and think how sweet it were
To change the dingy town for the fine air
And green fields of the country, and retire
To his own villa a substantial squire.
Perhaps in every human bosom lurks
A yearning toward Nature and her works,
Which neither cooping, smoking, use, or art,
Can stifle quite, or banish from the heart.
This leads the pale mechanic forth to pass
His listless Sabbath stretched along the grass;
This throngs the parks, and fills the one-horse chair,
That wheels the cit through summer dust and glare
His sweltering Sunday ride; and this could lure
Even Harford forth upon this morning's tour,

To roam at will for one whole day, and share

His fill of rural musing and fresh air.

Now pavements, footways, walls, and lamps are passed, And on the open turf he stands at last,

And breathes and gazes. 'Tis a lovely scene,

So fresh, so bright, so fragrant and so green !
The sun up in the sky; the crops all growing;
The cattle browsing round; the hawthorns blowing;
The meads in flower; the large leaves on the trees;
The bees all out and busy ; and the breeze
Just stealing from the bean-field, where he lies
Bathing his wings in balm; the butterflies
Hovering about like winged flowers; the swallow
Skimming the lake that in the grassy hollow
Trembles in cowering loveliness.--The whole
Reached even Harford's unpoetic soul;
He thought it vastly pleasant, and again
Would fetch a Sunday ramble now and then.

But time went on and even scenes like these,
When limbs are weary lose their power to please.
Harford, I've said, was fat; had trudged some miles;
And climbed o'er sundry hills and gates and stiles;
And now uprose before him steep and high,
Another hill his nerves and breath to try.

He sat down, wiped his brow, and called to mind
The desk and day-book he had left behind :
'The scene indeed was pretty, and all that,
But not to spend a day in looking at.'
And what had next occurred I cannot tell,
Had not the chiming of a distant bell
Broke on his servile musings apropos,

And roused him up to cross the rise, and know
What was it and from whence. It was the sound
Which calls to Sunday prayers the parish round;
And as he climbed the hill, more clear and clear
The joyous music rose upon his ear,

Till in a group of elms below was spied
A tall white spire, and there from every side,
Up to the house of God, a chequered train,
They gathered in by every path and lane :
Young lads, and knots of talking girls, and pairs
Of decent parents with their little heirs
Scampering before to pull the kingcups; one,
The youngest, chubbiest, riding blithe upon
The father's arm. The labouring man bedight
In plain smock-frock of more than usual white,