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The next verses, suggested by a well-known old song, show his early love of humanity and aspirations for an improved social state. It was probably written at Neath about 1847 or 1848.

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I preserve the following fantastic little poem because it so well describes the mode of house-building of the dwellers in

the grand equatorial forests which supply so many of man's wants in a way unknown in the colder climes.


“ 'Twas on the mighty Amazon,

We floated with the tide,
While steep and flowery were the banks

That rose on either side,
And where the green bananas grow,

An Indian's cot I spied.

“Like to the halls of Solomon,

Yon humble dwelling rose,
Without the grating of the saw

Or echoing hammers blows ;
For all its parts are bound with rope,

Which in the forest grows.

“Those wild fantastic slender cords

Which hang from branches high,
The place of staple, screw, and nail,

With equal strength supply,
And pole and rafter firm and fast

All silently they tie.

"All silently, for stake and pole

Were sharpened where they grew ;
And where the house was built, no axe

Was lifted up to hew,
But slow and still the Indian worked,

His wife and children too.

“Oh, for a lodge !'thus Cowper cried ;

And here's a peaceful home,
A quiet spot, a calm retreat,

Where care can seldom come.
Adieu ! thou silent Indian cot,

My fate it is to roam.”

I give the following verses on the Cayman or Alligator of the Amazon because I remember how pleased my brother was with the quotation from Macbeth, which so aptly applies to this dangerous reptile.


(Written, 1850.)
“Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold :
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with.'

“I bask in the waveless waters

When the sun is shining on high,
Watching the Indian children

With a grim and greedy eye ;
Woe to the careless bather

Who ventures where I lie.

“ I float on the midnight waters

With my deathly demon head;
My skin is an iron armour

Which flattens the hunter's lead;
And my eyes are a living terror,

Glassy as those of the dead.

“I hear the house-dog prowling,

And without a ripple sink ;
Down to the stream he cometh

And enters the water to drink,
I rise again as noiseless

And seize him on the brink.

“I dwell not in rushing waters,

But in woodland pool and lake,
Where the cowfish and the turtle

Lie sleeping 'neath the brake;
I seize the senseless dreamers,

And a merry meal I make.

“Midnight deeds have I witness'd,

But never shudder'd to see.
Tremble not, thou murderer pale !

Go ! leave the corpse to me,
And not a hair or a whiten'd bone

I'll leave to speak of thee.”

I preserve the next little poem because I feel sure that the first three verses were inspired by the memories of his childhood, while the conclusion indicates those deeper feelings still more dominant in that which follows it.


“I remember voices

In my early home,
Pleasant and familiar,

Breathed in sweetest tone-
“ Little manly voices,

Brothers then were near,
Soft and kindly voices ;

Of my sisters dear.
“ Grave and tender voices,

Voices now no more,
In the ear of childhood

Whispered golden lore.
"I remember voices,

Tones of later years,
Passionate and tearful,

Full of hopes and fears.
"Eloquent and earnest,

Seeming firm and true,
Trusting to these voices

I've had cause to rue.
“Friendship's voice deceived me,

And the maid I loved,
Vain of wealth and beauty,

False and fickle proved.

“ I remember voices,

Now I hear but one,
The silent voice within me

Speaks to me alone-
“Calm amid the tempests,

Live in peace with me,
Thou shalt learn Earth's wisdom

And Heaven's mystery.'”

The following poem is probably the last written by my brother. There is no draft or note of it in his rough notebook, and it is written out carefully on a sheet of thin letterpaper which he probably obtained in Para. It was therefore almost certainly written during the two weeks before his fatal illness.


“Uncalled they come across the mind,

We know not why or how,
And with instinctive reverence

Ignoble feelings bow :
A power strange, yet holy too,

Breathes through our every sense ;
Each atom of our being feels

Its subtle influence.
High visions, noble thinkings, flash

Like meteors through the brain,
If Paradise was lost to us,

'Tis surely come again ! Better moments! Better moments! Ye are sunny angels' wings, Sent to shed a holier radiance o'er all dim and worldly things.

“ Perchance we love to watch awhile,

In simple child-like mood,
The waving of the summer grass,

The ebbing of the flood,
Or lie upon a mossy

In some secluded shade,
When sudden, from before our gaze,

The grass—the waters fade ;
And giving up our being's rein

To unknown guiding hands,
We float in passive confidence

To voiceless spirit lands.
Better moments! Better moments! Ye are sunny angels' wings,
Sent to shed a holier radiance o'er all dim and worldly things.

"Or sitting in a leafy wood,

Some still and breathless hour,
The joyous twitter of a bird

Has strange unconscious power ;
The power to send through ev'ry nerve

A thrill of soft delight;
A better moment, like the dawn,

Steals in with ambient light;
The soul expands, and lovingly

Takes in its pure embrace,
All life! all nature ! high or mean,

Of colour, tongue, or race.
Better moments! Better moments! Ye are sunny angels' wings,
Sent to shed a holier radiance o'er all dim and worldly things.

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