John Critchley Prince
John Critchley Prince Poems
The people of our Christian land
Have cause to bless the men who planned
That place of gentle power and rule,
The noble British Sunday School
...
To a region of song and of sunnier day,
The battle-host wended its wearisome way,
Through the terrible Splugen's tenebrious gloom,
That seemed to lead on to the portals of doom.
...
It is well that beauteous woman
Has the quickest sense of wrong;
That the tenderest traits of feeling
...
Once more to visit a distracted world,
The spirit of sweet Peace comes trembling down,
As war's ensanguined flag is newly furled
...
Oh! the Songs of the People are voices of power
That echo in many a land;
They lighten the heart in the sorrowful hour,
And quicken the labour of hand;
...
My heart was galled with bitter wrong,
Revengeful feelings fired my blood;
I cherished hate with passion strong,
While round my couch dark demons stood.
...
The poet sings of many things
In lands, and seas, and skies,
As Fancy's many-coloured wings
Flutter before his eyes;
...
Strive on, brave souls, and win your way
By energy and care,
Waste not one portion of the day
In languor or despair;
...
When the night cometh round, and our duties are done,
And a calm stealeth over the breast,
When the bread that is needful is honestly won,
And our worldly thoughts nestle to rest,—
...
It seems but yesterday, when merry Spring
Leapt o'er the lea, while clustering round her feet
Sprang buds and blossoms, beautiful and sweet,
And her glad voice made wood and welkin ring.
...
The earth lay entranced in the glories of June,
The flowers were in splendour, the birds were in tune,
When I, a poor wayfarer, plodded along,
...
Peace for the nations, God,
For the harassed earth complains
That her sons are defiling the fertile sod
With the blood of each other's veins;
...
It was a Summer's gorgeous eventide,
Softly and sweetly silent, warm and bright,
And all the breadth of glorious landscape wide
Was swathed in vesture of serenest light;
...
The king who is swathed in the splendours of state,
Whose power and possessions are wide,
Is akin to the beggar who whines at his gate,
Howe'er it may torture his pride;
...
Broad cast thy seed;
If thou hast ought of wealth to lend
Beyond what reason bids thee spend,
Seek out the haunts of want and woe,
...
Let stand-still souls bemoan the dreary past,
With all its errors numberless and vast;
Its waste in warfare, torture-tools, and fires,
Its false ambitions and its fierce desires,
...
Six years have passed, my loved lost wife,
Since thou wast taken from my breast,
And cradled in thy final rest,
Leaving me lone with grief and strife.
...
The Postman is the people's man,
Ready of foot and eye and hand,
Who bears a blessing or a ban
To many in the land.
...
Dear wife, we struggle in a time
Saddened by many a shade,
For warfare in another clime
Has paralysed my trade;
...
How calm and how beneficent is God
To all His creatures in this world of ours!
Spring is returned with renovating powers,
To clear the sky, and fertilise the sod,
...
John Critchley Prince Biography
Born in Wigan, Lancashire, to Joseph Prince and his wife Nancy, JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE received some little formal education at a Baptist Sunday School. At nine years of age he began work with his father as a 'reed-maker', a 'reed' being a tool used by hand-loom weavers to separate threads. At eighteen, he married Ann Orme, a resident of Hyde near Manchester where Prince was to live for a number of years, and eventually to die. A family soon followed and by 1830 the pair had a son and two daughters. Employment prospects being bleak, Prince sought work in France, but to no avail (see the tale, "Pauline Peronne"). After suffering much hardship during his return journey (related in "Sketch of the Author's Life"), he arrived home to find his family in the Wigan poorhouse. In later years Prince moved around Lancashire, mainly in Blackburn, Ashton and Hyde, searching for casual work. He supplemented his income by contributing poems to local periodicals and scrounging off acquaintances. Prince published his first poetry collection, "Hours With the Muses", in 1841. It sold well, running to five editions and attracting attention in London. Other collections followed, some published and sold privately by the author; "Dreams and Realities" in 1847, "The Poetic Rosary" in 1850, "Autumn Leaves" in 1856 and "Miscellaneous Poems" in 1861. Included within these are several short prose pieces, such as "Passion and Penitence", "A Stray Leaf", "Random Thoughts," and "Changes for the Better", which demonstrate no mean talents as a story-teller and essayist. The record suggests that in his day Prince was considered an accomplished member of Manchester's community of poets and writers, being ranked among such local notables as Samuel Bamford, Elijah Ridings and John Bolton Rogerson.)
The Best Poem Of John Critchley Prince
The Sunday School
The people of our Christian land
Have cause to bless the men who planned
That place of gentle power and rule,
The noble British Sunday School;
For there the poor man's child may come,
As to a consecrated home,
And in its hallowed precincts find
Knowledge and comfort for the mind.
The man of toil has many a care,
And little, haply, can he spare,
To teach and elevate his child,
And keep its nature undefiled;
But here, whate'er his creed, or none,
His offspring will be looked upon
With kindly eyes, and shown the way
That opens into joyful day.
Some men of toil, though husbands, sires,
May cherish selfish, low desires,
And waste the means which, wisely spent,
Would bring their household calm content.
Or they may be—how sad the case!—
In language rude, of manners base,
And by a false and fierce control
Corrupt the young untutored soul.
Then more the need that there should be
This refuge of humanity,
Where one day, richest of the seven,
The child may learn of love and Heaven.
But if the mother does not feel
For moral and religious weal;
If all her better instincts sleep,
Well may the pitying angels weep!
'Tis pleasant on a Sabbath morn,
When music on the air is borne,
To see young children, trim and neat,
Come forth from many a crowded street,
From mountain side, and vale and lea,
Where'er their dwelling-place may be,
To seek the Sunday School again,
Their own unbought and free domain.
And is it not a joy, I ask,
To hear them at the holy task,
Like bees assiduous in the hive,
Hoarding the sweets on which they thrive?
Seeking to know, and know aright,
The sacred Word, the Gospel light,
The glorious Gospel, which has power
To cheer the Christian's darkest hour.
'Tis grand on some great holiday
To see their orderly array,
Marshalled by zealous men, whose pride
Is to be with them, side by side.
They go to spend a day of joy
Unmingled with the world's alloy,
In Nature's presence to adore,
And learn from God one lesson more.
They seek the woodland's slumbrous shade
Which the fierce sun can scarce invade,
Where, banquet done, and prayer preferred,
The foliage of the trees is stirred
With a thanksgiving hymn of power,
That sanctifies that sylvan bower,
Whilst angels, listening with glad eyes,
Call the song upward to the skies.
This day will serve them through the year
With thoughts of pleasantness and cheer,
Enhance their love of harmless things,
And quicken young Devotion's wings.
Ye careful parents, when ye find
Good seed sown in the youthful mind,
Foster its growth with all your power,
And bring it into beauteous flower.
O Sunday Schools! O Christian land!
Long may your institutions stand,
The wonder of the farthest zone,
The strength and glory of your own!
Be this the Sabbath teacher's prayer,
For those beneath his watchful care,
'Father, thy countless flock behold,
And bring them safely to Thy fold.'
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