The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
 |
| I. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
|
|
|
|
| II. |
|
|
THE WORKMAN'S EVENING SONG. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
60
THE WORKMAN'S EVENING SONG.
I'm glad to see yon springtide sun
Go down, albeit I love his light;
My bread is won, my labour done,
My reason clear, my conscience right;
And as I take my homeward way,
I see, with not irreverent eyes,
The grandeur of departing day,
In the rich glory of the skies;
Whilst yet the shadowy coppice rings,
Where the brave throstle blithely sings.
Go down, albeit I love his light;
My bread is won, my labour done,
My reason clear, my conscience right;
And as I take my homeward way,
I see, with not irreverent eyes,
The grandeur of departing day,
In the rich glory of the skies;
Whilst yet the shadowy coppice rings,
Where the brave throstle blithely sings.
To-morrow, when his earliest beams
Turn to loose gold the quivering rills,—
Rekindle the rejoicing streams,—
In purple vesture swathe the hills,—
With buoyant mind, and sinews strong,
I'll go, with willing heart, to bear
What burdens to my lot belong,
Of honest toil my needful share;
And on my way see beauteous things,
Whilst the glad skylark blithely sings.
Turn to loose gold the quivering rills,—
Rekindle the rejoicing streams,—
In purple vesture swathe the hills,—
With buoyant mind, and sinews strong,
I'll go, with willing heart, to bear
What burdens to my lot belong,
Of honest toil my needful share;
And on my way see beauteous things,
Whilst the glad skylark blithely sings.
61
But now I seek that quiet nest,
Shut from the outward world's annoy,
My home, where I am ever blest,
The sanctuary of my joy;
There will my gentle wife with me
Partake the cheerful evening meal,—
Talk with confiding speech and free,
Sweetly and calmly, till I feel
The peace, the bliss her presence brings,
Whilst the bright kettle blithely sings.
Shut from the outward world's annoy,
My home, where I am ever blest,
The sanctuary of my joy;
There will my gentle wife with me
Partake the cheerful evening meal,—
Talk with confiding speech and free,
Sweetly and calmly, till I feel
The peace, the bliss her presence brings,
Whilst the bright kettle blithely sings.
Then will I sit me at my ease,
Absorbed in some enchanting page,
Something to teach me or to please,—
Tale-teller, Annalist, or Sage;
But chief the Poet shall instil
Into my inmost depths of heart
The lofty spirit of his will;
The essence of his tuneful art;
And lift me high on Fancy's wings,
Whilst the shrill cricket blithely sings.
Absorbed in some enchanting page,
Something to teach me or to please,—
Tale-teller, Annalist, or Sage;
But chief the Poet shall instil
Into my inmost depths of heart
The lofty spirit of his will;
The essence of his tuneful art;
And lift me high on Fancy's wings,
Whilst the shrill cricket blithely sings.
When Sabbath comes, God's holy boon,—
Blest day, so dear and fugitive!—
I'll ask yon sun, which leaves us soon,
For all the light that he can give;
I'll fly to Nature's tranquil breast,
With the same feelings as of old,
And lay me down for thought and rest
In fields of fluctuating gold;
Or murmur sweet imaginings
Where the fresh brooklet blithely sings.
Blest day, so dear and fugitive!—
I'll ask yon sun, which leaves us soon,
For all the light that he can give;
I'll fly to Nature's tranquil breast,
With the same feelings as of old,
And lay me down for thought and rest
In fields of fluctuating gold;
Or murmur sweet imaginings
Where the fresh brooklet blithely sings.
62
I'll tread the upland's starry floors,
Climb the rough mountain's shadowy side,
Feel the deep silence of the moors—
Silence that awes all human pride;
The voice of birds 'mid forest glooms,
The lapse of waters in the shade,—
Shapes, colours, motions, sounds, perfumes,
Of Nature's making, shall pervade
My senses with delightful things,
Whilst my rapt soul serenely sings.
Climb the rough mountain's shadowy side,
Feel the deep silence of the moors—
Silence that awes all human pride;
The voice of birds 'mid forest glooms,
The lapse of waters in the shade,—
Shapes, colours, motions, sounds, perfumes,
Of Nature's making, shall pervade
My senses with delightful things,
Whilst my rapt soul serenely sings.
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |