The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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“MY FATHER'S FARM.”
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 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
47
“MY FATHER'S FARM.”
(INSCRIBED TO J. L., ESQ.)
Methinks I see my father's farm,
In whose sweet fields I used to stray;
Then light of heart and lithe of arm,
I found in Nature every charm,—
In life one summer's day.
In whose sweet fields I used to stray;
Then light of heart and lithe of arm,
I found in Nature every charm,—
In life one summer's day.
I see it, and unbidden tears
'Twere pain to quell, suffuse my eyes;
To that calm spot my earliest years—
Many my pleasures, few my fears—
Were bound by holiest ties.
'Twere pain to quell, suffuse my eyes;
To that calm spot my earliest years—
Many my pleasures, few my fears—
Were bound by holiest ties.
A moody, meditative boy,
A young enthusiast, free to rove,
I found in everything a joy,
In everything some sweet employ,
Something to learn and love.
A young enthusiast, free to rove,
I found in everything a joy,
In everything some sweet employ,
Something to learn and love.
In summer's freedom, winter's thrall,
In calm or tempest, shade or shine,
In russet robe or snowy pall,
All Nature's garbs, I loved them all,
And deemed each change divine.
In calm or tempest, shade or shine,
In russet robe or snowy pall,
All Nature's garbs, I loved them all,
And deemed each change divine.
48
I knew each old and stalwart tree,—
Each savage glen, each sylvan nook,
Each wild wood, murmuring poësy,
Each bird about it flitting free,
Each music-making brook;—
Each savage glen, each sylvan nook,
Each wild wood, murmuring poësy,
Each bird about it flitting free,
Each music-making brook;—
Each rustic gate and rugged stile,
Each lonely cairn and crumbling wall,
Each fairy haunt, each storied pile,
Each silvery lake and slumbering isle,
Each wildering waterfall.
Each lonely cairn and crumbling wall,
Each fairy haunt, each storied pile,
Each silvery lake and slumbering isle,
Each wildering waterfall.
To me each peasant girl that came
Fresh from her cottage on the moor,
Seemed lovelier far than daintiest dame,
Though clothed with beauty, crowned with fame,
That stepped o'er palace floor.
Fresh from her cottage on the moor,
Seemed lovelier far than daintiest dame,
Though clothed with beauty, crowned with fame,
That stepped o'er palace floor.
To me each peasant man that trod
With sturdy foot the yielding soil,
Seemed worthy of his native sod,
A free, brave image of his God,
A lord of honest toil.
With sturdy foot the yielding soil,
Seemed worthy of his native sod,
A free, brave image of his God,
A lord of honest toil.
Alas! that dear departed time
Of irksome toil but pleasant play,
Of gladsome song, romantic rhyme,
Of dawning thought, of dream sublime—
Has softly slid away!
Of irksome toil but pleasant play,
Of gladsome song, romantic rhyme,
Of dawning thought, of dream sublime—
Has softly slid away!
And now, amid the human waves
Heaving and clashing everywhere,—
I strive with Trade's untiring slaves,
Whose spirit ever gives and craves,
And ask and give my share.
Heaving and clashing everywhere,—
I strive with Trade's untiring slaves,
Whose spirit ever gives and craves,
And ask and give my share.
49
Man must not lie on sunny leas,
Counting the daisies on the sward;
Duties well done must purchase ease!
Love—Labour—Virtue—Truth, 'tis these
Must bring life's best reward.
Counting the daisies on the sward;
Duties well done must purchase ease!
Love—Labour—Virtue—Truth, 'tis these
Must bring life's best reward.
But still some intermittent hours
May come, apart from cares and schemes,
When I may thrid my native bowers,
Walk 'mong my native heather-flowers,
Drink at my native streams.
May come, apart from cares and schemes,
When I may thrid my native bowers,
Walk 'mong my native heather-flowers,
Drink at my native streams.
Sweet hours! when I may dare to seek
The old familiar dwelling-place,
Sit by my father's ingle-cheek,
Hear my fond mother gently speak,
And see my sister's face!
The old familiar dwelling-place,
Sit by my father's ingle-cheek,
Hear my fond mother gently speak,
And see my sister's face!
Blest hours! when I may break away
From sweat of brain, or toil of arm,
Roam sunny strath, and blooming brae,
And spend a joyous holiday
Around my Father's Farm!
From sweat of brain, or toil of arm,
Roam sunny strath, and blooming brae,
And spend a joyous holiday
Around my Father's Farm!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |