AN ENGLISH ECLOGUE.
‘He crept close to Creation's brim, and heard a roar like water.’
TIMOTHY.
Well, here's the cuckoo come again, after the barley sowing,
Down on the duck-pond in the lane the white-weed is a-blowing,
The gorse has got its coat of gold, and smells as sweet as clover,
The lady-smocks are blowing bold, the primroses nigh over,
On field and fold all things look fair, and lambkins white are leaping,
The speckled snakes crawl here and there, —but Holy Tommie's sleeping.
JACOB.
Ah, him that used to work with Crew!
Crewe told me how he blundered.
He used to preach. I heard him too.
Lord! how he groaned and thundered!
The women shrieked like sucking-swine, the men roared out like cattle,
But seem'd to think it mighty fine!
TIMOTHY.
All trash and stuff and tattle!
He lost his head through meddling so with things that don't concern us;
When questioning too close we go, 'tis little God will learn us;
To squeeze the crops 'tis hard enough from His dry ground about us,
But sowing t'other world is stuff,—it gets its crops without us!
JACOB.
That's where it lies! We get no good by asking questions, neighbour:
'Tis Parsons cook our Sunday food, while we are hard at labour:
This world needs help upon its way, for men feed one another,
And why do we give Parsons pay?—if not to manage t'other?
TIMOTHY.
You're right! No man as grunts and grides at this here world has thriven;
Mutton won't drop in our insides though we do gape at heaven!
Why, Tommie's cheek was ruddy red, as rosy as an apple,
Till Methodism filled his head, and he was seen at chapel,
Found out that he'd received a call, grew dismal, dull, and surly,
Read tracts at work, big tracts and small, went praying late and early,
And by and by began, poor fool, to argue with the doubting,
And though he'd scarcely been to school, began his public spouting.
I wasn't blind—and soon I found how he let matters go here,—
While he was tilling heavenly ground things suffered down below here:
Through want of feed, the hens did die, the horses next grew useless,
For lack o' milking by and by the very cows grew juiceless;
And when I sought him out, and swore in rage and consternation,
Why, Tommie sigh'd, and snivell'd sore, and talk'd about salvation!
‘Salvation's mighty well,’ says I, right mad with my disaster,
‘I want to save my property; so find another master!’
He didn't grumble or resist, though he seemed broken-hearted,
But slipped a tract into my fist the morning he departed;
Ay, got a place next day with Crewe, who knew the lad was clever,
But dawdled as he used to do, and preached as much as ever.
JACOB.
But Crewe soon sent him packing too—he's just the sort of fellow;
Why, ev'n when Parson calls, old Crewe grunts, grumbles, and looks yellow!
TIMOTHY.
He got another master, though, but soon began to tire him;
His wages sank and sank, and so no farmer here would hire him;
And soon, between that world and this, poor Tommie grew more mournful,
His worldly ways went all amiss—the country folk looked scornful—
And last the blessed Methodists grew tired, and would not hear him,
And wouldn't heed his talk inspired, and shrank from sitting near him.
JACOB.
With Methodists 'tis just the way. Give me the High Church, neighbour.
TIMOTHY.
‘Why don't you be a man?’ said they, ‘keep clean and do your labour?’
And what d'ye think that Tommie cried?— ‘I don't play shilly-shally;
If I'm to serve my Lord and Guide, 'twill be continuälly:
You think that you can cheat and scoff from Sunday on to Sunday,
And put the Lord Almighty off by howling out on one day;
But if you seek salvation, know, your feelings must be stronger.’
And holy Tommie would not go to chapel any longer.
Learned sense? Not he! Reformed? Pooh, pooh! but moped and fretted blindly,
Because the precious praying crew had used him so unkindly.
His back grew bare, his life grew sore, his brain grew dreadful airy,
He thought of t'other world the more 'cause this seemed so contrary;
Went wandering on the river-side, and in the woods lay lurking,
Gaped at the sky in summer-tide when other men were working,
And once (I saw him) watch'd the skies, where a wild lark was winging,
With tears a-shining in his eyes,—because the lark was singing!
Last harvest-time to me he came, and begged for work so sadly,
Show'd for his former ways such shame, and look'd so sick and badly,
I had not heart to give him pain, but put him out a-reaping,
But, Lord! the same tale o'er again—he worked like one half-sleeping.
‘Be off!’ says I, ‘you lazy lout,’ and all the rest stood sneering.
‘Master,’ says he, ‘you're right, I doubt,— the Lord seems hard o' hearing!
I thought I could fulfil full clear the call that I had gotten,
But here's another harvest here, and all my life seems rotten.
The Methodists are dull as stone, the High Church folk are lazy,
And even when I pray alone, the ways of Heaven seem hazy.
Religion don't appear to me to keep a lad from sad things,
And though the world is fine to see, 'tis full of cruel bad things.
Why, I can't walk in woodland ways, and see the flowers a-growing,
And on the light green meadows gaze, or watch the river flowing,
But even here, where things look fine, out creeps the speckled adder,
Or snakes crawl in the golden shine, and all creation's sadder.
The better I have seemed to grow, the worse all things have gone with me,
It beats me out and out, and so—I wish the Lord was done with me!’
And after these same words were said, Tommie grew paler, stiller,
And by and by he took to bed, and quickly he grew iller:
And when the early new-year rain was yellowing pool and river,
He closed his eyes, and slipt his chain, and fell to sleep for ever.
JACOB.
'Tis clear enough, he'd lost his wit—the chapel set it turning.
TIMOTHY.
Now, this is how I look at it, although I've got no learning:
In this here world, to do like him is nothing but self-slaughter,—
He crept close to Creation's brim, and heard a roar like water,
His head went round, his limbs grew stiff, his blood lost life and motion,—
Like one who stands upon a cliff and sees the roaring Ocean. . . .
But there's the Parson at his gate, with Doctor Barth, his crony;
Some of these days the old chap's weight will kill that precious pony!
Ah, he's the man whose words don't fail to keep one sage and steady!
Wife, here be Parson! Draw some ale, and set the table ready.
