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THE COTTAGE GIRL.
WRITTEN ON MIDSUMMER-EVE, 1786.
“Thrice hail with magic song this hallow'd hour!”
Theocritus, Idyl. ii.
Theocritus, Idyl. ii.
Sweet to the fond poetic eye
The evening-cloud that wanders by;
Its transitory shadow pale
Brushing, so still, the purpled vale!
And sweet, beyond the misty stream,
The wild wood's scatter'd tuftings gleam,
(Where the horizon steals from sight)
Cool-tinctur'd in the fainting light!
Yet, sweeter than the silent scene,
The manners of yon cottag'd green;
Where nature breathes the genuine heart,
Unvarnish'd by the gloss of art!
The evening-cloud that wanders by;
Its transitory shadow pale
Brushing, so still, the purpled vale!
And sweet, beyond the misty stream,
The wild wood's scatter'd tuftings gleam,
(Where the horizon steals from sight)
Cool-tinctur'd in the fainting light!
Yet, sweeter than the silent scene,
The manners of yon cottag'd green;
Where nature breathes the genuine heart,
Unvarnish'd by the gloss of art!
Now glimmer scarce the hill-tops near,
As village murmurs catch mine ear:
And now yon cot, beside the lea,
(Whence oft I hear the peasant's glee)
Fades to the glimpse of twilight grey,
And, in the gloom, slow sinks away!
There, as her light of frugal rush
Twinkles thro' the white-thorn bush,
Reflected from the scanty pane,
The rustic maid invokes her swain;
And hails, to pensive damsels dear,
This eve, tho' direst of the year!
As village murmurs catch mine ear:
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(Whence oft I hear the peasant's glee)
Fades to the glimpse of twilight grey,
And, in the gloom, slow sinks away!
There, as her light of frugal rush
Twinkles thro' the white-thorn bush,
Reflected from the scanty pane,
The rustic maid invokes her swain;
And hails, to pensive damsels dear,
This eve, tho' direst of the year!
Oft on the shrub she casts her eye,
That spoke her true-love's secret sigh;
Or else, alas! too plainly told,
Her true-love's faithless heart was cold.
That spoke her true-love's secret sigh;
Or else, alas! too plainly told,
Her true-love's faithless heart was cold.
The moss-rose that, at fall of dew,
(Ere eve its duskier curtain drew)
Was freshly gather'd from its stem,
She values as the ruby gem;
And, guarded from the piercing air,
With all an anxious lover's care,
She bids it, for her shepherd's sake,
Await the new-year's frolic wake—
When, faded, in its alter'd hue
She reads—the rustic is untrue!
But, if its leaves the crimson paint,
Her sickening hopes no longer faint.
The rose upon her bosom worn,
She meets him at the peep of morn:
And lo! her lips with kisses prest,
He plucks it from her panting breast.
(Ere eve its duskier curtain drew)
Was freshly gather'd from its stem,
She values as the ruby gem;
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With all an anxious lover's care,
She bids it, for her shepherd's sake,
Await the new-year's frolic wake—
When, faded, in its alter'd hue
She reads—the rustic is untrue!
But, if its leaves the crimson paint,
Her sickening hopes no longer faint.
The rose upon her bosom worn,
She meets him at the peep of morn:
And lo! her lips with kisses prest,
He plucks it from her panting breast.
Dearer than seas of glowing pearl,
The illusion soothes the cottage girl,
Whilst, on this thrice-hallow'd eve,
Her wishes and her fears believe
All that the credulous have taught
To stir the quivering pulse of thought.
The illusion soothes the cottage girl,
Whilst, on this thrice-hallow'd eve,
Her wishes and her fears believe
All that the credulous have taught
To stir the quivering pulse of thought.
Now, to relieve her growing fear,
That feels the haunted moment near
When ghosts in chains the church-yard walk,
She tries to steal the time by talk.
But hark! the church-clock swings around
With a dead pause each sullen sound,
And tells, the midnight hour is come
That wraps the groves in spectred gloom!
That feels the haunted moment near
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She tries to steal the time by talk.
But hark! the church-clock swings around
With a dead pause each sullen sound,
And tells, the midnight hour is come
That wraps the groves in spectred gloom!
To issue from beneath the thatch,
With trembling hand she lifts the latch,
And steps, as creaks the feeble door,
With cautious feet her threshold o'er;
Lest, stumbling on the horse-shoe dim,
Dire spells unsinew every limb.
With trembling hand she lifts the latch,
And steps, as creaks the feeble door,
With cautious feet her threshold o'er;
Lest, stumbling on the horse-shoe dim,
Dire spells unsinew every limb.
Lo, shuddering at the solemn deed,
She scatters round the magic seed,
And thrice repeats, “The seed I sow;
“My true-love's scythe the crop shall mow.”
Strait, as her frame fresh horrors freeze,
Her true-love with his scythe she sees!
She scatters round the magic seed,
And thrice repeats, “The seed I sow;
“My true-love's scythe the crop shall mow.”
Strait, as her frame fresh horrors freeze,
Her true-love with his scythe she sees!
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And next, she seeks the yew-tree shade,
Where he who died for love is laid;
There binds upon the verdant sod
(By many a moon-light faery trod)
The cowslip and the lily wreath
She wove, her hawthorn-hedge beneath:
And, whispering, “Ah, may Colin prove
“As constant, as thou wast, to love—”
Kisses with pale lip, full of dread,
The turf that hides his clay-cold head!
Then homeward, as thro' rustling trees
She hears a shriek in every breeze,
In forms her flutter'd spirits give
Each shivering leaf appears to live.
At length, her love-sick projects tried,
She gains her cot the lea beside;
And on her pillow sinks to rest,
With dreams of constant Colin blest;
While, east-along, the ruddy streak
Colours the shadows at day-break!
Where he who died for love is laid;
There binds upon the verdant sod
(By many a moon-light faery trod)
The cowslip and the lily wreath
She wove, her hawthorn-hedge beneath:
And, whispering, “Ah, may Colin prove
“As constant, as thou wast, to love—”
Kisses with pale lip, full of dread,
The turf that hides his clay-cold head!
Then homeward, as thro' rustling trees
She hears a shriek in every breeze,
In forms her flutter'd spirits give
Each shivering leaf appears to live.
At length, her love-sick projects tried,
She gains her cot the lea beside;
And on her pillow sinks to rest,
With dreams of constant Colin blest;
While, east-along, the ruddy streak
Colours the shadows at day-break!
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Such are the phantoms love can raise;
As first his gradual ardour strays
O'er the young virgin's thrilling frame;
A sweet delirium in the flame!
Her bosom's gently rising swell,
And purple light, the tumult tell—
The melting blush upon her cheek,
The sigh, the glance, her passion speak!
And now, some favourite object near,
She feels the throbs of hope and fear;
And, all unknowing to conceal
The ingenuous soul by fashion's veil,
Tries every art to feed her fires
That fond credulity inspires.
As first his gradual ardour strays
O'er the young virgin's thrilling frame;
A sweet delirium in the flame!
Her bosom's gently rising swell,
And purple light, the tumult tell—
The melting blush upon her cheek,
The sigh, the glance, her passion speak!
And now, some favourite object near,
She feels the throbs of hope and fear;
And, all unknowing to conceal
The ingenuous soul by fashion's veil,
Tries every art to feed her fires
That fond credulity inspires.
Nor love alone, in vernal youth,
Bids airy fancy mimic truth.
The cottager, or maid, or wife,
Each dear deception owns thro' life:
Whether, as superstitions sway,
O'er upland dews she slopes her way,
Hailing, on Easter's holy morn,
The spotless lamb thro' ether borne,
Which her adoring eyes behold,
Mid orient skies of molten gold;
Or whether, if disease assail
In shape of shivering tertian pale,
For Tray, what time the fit began,
She breaks the salted cake of bran,
Transferring with the charmed bit
To fawning Tray her ague fit;
Or, as the recent grave she delves,
(Ere dawn dissolve the circling elves)
Where the last youth was lock'd in sleep,
The sacred salt she buries deep—
Thus nine times (no companion nigh
To cheer the night-envelop'd sky)
Revisiting the charnel ground,
“Her tongue chain'd up without a sound.”
Bids airy fancy mimic truth.
The cottager, or maid, or wife,
Each dear deception owns thro' life:
Whether, as superstitions sway,
O'er upland dews she slopes her way,
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The spotless lamb thro' ether borne,
Which her adoring eyes behold,
Mid orient skies of molten gold;
Or whether, if disease assail
In shape of shivering tertian pale,
For Tray, what time the fit began,
She breaks the salted cake of bran,
Transferring with the charmed bit
To fawning Tray her ague fit;
Or, as the recent grave she delves,
(Ere dawn dissolve the circling elves)
Where the last youth was lock'd in sleep,
The sacred salt she buries deep—
Thus nine times (no companion nigh
To cheer the night-envelop'd sky)
Revisiting the charnel ground,
“Her tongue chain'd up without a sound.”
'Tis thus fantastic visions rise,
To cheat the unweeting damsel's eyes.
Nor bending age, nor pining want,
The faery prospect disenchant:
But, stor'd with many a trancing charm,
A thousand phantoms round her swarm;
'Till now the villagers, o'eraw'd,
Her various feats in wonder laud;
And, arm'd with her associate switch,
She dwindles to—a wither'd witch!
To cheat the unweeting damsel's eyes.
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The faery prospect disenchant:
But, stor'd with many a trancing charm,
A thousand phantoms round her swarm;
'Till now the villagers, o'eraw'd,
Her various feats in wonder laud;
And, arm'd with her associate switch,
She dwindles to—a wither'd witch!
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