THE CONVICT AND THE PAUPER.
THE CONVICT AND THE PAUPER.
(A BALLAD FOR HOME GOVERNORS.)
O GIVE no more to flagrant Wrong
The chances you refuse to Right,
Nor let a boon to Vice belong
Wherein the virtuous would delight;
Man's nature loves the new and strange,
With Sinbad's luck and Crusoe's trip,-
While stagnant misery pines for change,
And longs to get on board o' ship.
Why should we add to reckless Sin
This new temptation to do worse,—
That, once transported, he may win
A blessing-not a guilty curse?
Alas! how little wisdom serves
To govern men, or rule a land,
When hope of condemnation nerves
The burglar's or the murderer's hand!
Your convict's unrepented crime,
That well deserved the hangman's rope,
Is punished-in a brilliant clime,
With all things new to new-born hope!
While yonder honest parish slave,
Harass'd by poverty's sharp goads,
Can only hope-a pauper's grave,
And work meanwhile upon the roads!
Go to send forth with costly care
Such foolish cargoes now no more;
But let true worth your lottery share
Of prizes on some richer shore:
Help not, as now, those Belial bands
Adventurous and free to roam
O'er wide Australia's happy lands,—
But keep them to be slaves at home.
Fetter'd, and drill'd, and prison-drest,
Well-sentinell'd, and whipp'd to task,-
A living warning to the rest,-
This is the penalty we ask ;
Home-shame for such; to moil in muck,
And change their place with honest men,
Whose only sin is, little luck,
And living threescore years and ten!
(A BALLAD FOR THE GOLD-DIGGER).
LUCK, boys, luck!—a nugget of gold
Big as my fist in the blest black mould!
Luck!-a gallon of bright yellow grains
Dotted like stars in the white quartz veins !
Luck? Can I keep it by wallowing in vice,—
Fighting, and swearing, and drinking, and dice?
D'ye call that Luck? No luck could be worse
Than picking up nuggets that brought such a curse!
Luck? My luck—good luck let it be,—
Blessings for others, and plenty for me;
Comfort without, and contentment within,
Uncurst by folly, uncanker'd by sin!
Luck! good luck! This hillock shall give
My sisters in Ayrshire enough while they live;
And haply bring father, and mother, and all,
From want and the workhouse to Liberty Hall !
Luck! In yon little heap there hide
My farm and its fields on a green hill-side,
With flocks, and bairns, and the braw wee wife,
And-God's good grace on a good man's life!
(A BALLAD FOR THE RICHER DIGGINS.)
Be it what you will, brother,-
worse than what you say,
Try to make the best of things,
or beat them as you may!
For never have I read in books,
or heard, or seen, ill luck
That didn't mend apace, when met
by hearty English pluck.
I wot you've come a longish way,
and watch'd a longish while,
And long'd in vain, from day to day,
for crabbed Fortune's smile;
But cheerly, man! the longer you have look'd for luck in vain It must be something nearer now ;so look for it again!
The blackest cloud that ever was, eclipsing summer light,
How looks it on its other side? all beautiful and bright! The darkest providence there is, beheld by Wisdom's eyes,
Is merciful, and just, and kind, and excellent and wise!
So, friend, though disappointed hopes be bitter in the mouth,
Hope on! for Nature's very heart is hopeful in the South:
Australia, with her tempered clime,
and richly teeming soil,
Will well repay with golden luck
for hopefulness and toil.
No more lottery-work
in digging pits for gold,
But honest, well-paid labour,
in the field and in the fold;
The luck that lives on nuggets
is but poorly off for health;
But wheat, and fruits, and wholesome roots, are food as well as wealth!
FRIEND, one last word before we part,—
One kindly word from heart to heart :
Where'er to distant climes you roam,
To seek and find a happy home,
Remember, at the ends of Earth,
The dear Old Country of your birth!
Plead for her welfare in your pray'rs,
And bid your children call her theirs ;
Tell them the stories of her fame,
Teach them to love old England's name,
And count it honour, as you can,
In being still--an Englishman!
Further the Book that made us great
Our bulwark-book for Church and State,-
The Blessed Bible-that must be
The Word to make and keep you free!
Cherish it well; let no false priest
Poison the spiritual feast,
Nor add, nor take away, one page
Of that well chartered heritage;
So shall you prosper, and take root
Where Providence will fix your foot,
And rear, wherever you may roam,
An honest, English Christian Home.
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