The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles ... with memoir, critical dissertation, and explanatory notes, by the Rev. George Gilfillan |
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| THE VILLAGER'S VERSE-BOOK. |
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 | The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles |  |
240
THE VILLAGER'S VERSE-BOOK.
241
PATH OF LIFE.
1
O Lord, in sickness and in health,To every lot resigned,
Grant me, before all worldly wealth,
A meek and thankful mind!
2
As, life, thy upland path we tread,And often pause in vain,
To think of friends and parents dead,
Oh, let us not complain!
3
The Lord may give or take away,But nought our faith can move,
Whilst we to heaven can look and say,
Our Father lives above.
SUNRISE.
1
When from my humble bed I rise,And see the morning sun,
That, glorious in the eastern skies,
Its journey has begun,
242
2
I think of the Almighty PowerWhich called this orb from night;
I think how many at this hour
Rejoice beneath its light.
3
And then I pray, in every land,Where'er this light is shed,
That all who live may bless the Hand
Which gives their daily bread.
SUMMER'S EVENING.
1
As homeward by the evening starI pass along the plain,
I see the taper's light afar,
Shine through our cottage pane.
2
My brothers and my sisters dear,The child upon the knee,
Spring when my hastening steps they hear,
And smile to welcome me.
3
But when the fire is growing dim,And mother's labours cease,
I fold my hands, repeat my hymn,
And lay me down in peace.
243
SPRING—CUCKOO.
1
The bee is humming in the sun,The yellow cowslip springs,
And, hark! from yonder woodland's side
Again the cuckoo sings!
2
Cuckoo, cuckoo, no other noteShe sings from day to day;
But I, though a poor cottage girl,
Can work, and read, and pray.
3
And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,Which heavenly truth displays,
Oh! let me still employ my voice
In my Redeemer's praise.
SHEEPFOLD.
1
The sheep were in the fold at night,And now a new-born lamb
Totters and trembles in the light,
Or bleats beside its dam.
2
How anxiously the mother tries,With every tender care,
To screen it from inclement skies,
And the cold morning air!
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3
The hailstorm of the east is fled,She seems with joy to swell,
Whilst ever as she bends her head,
I hear the tinkling bell.
4
So while for me a mother's prayerAscends to heaven above,
May I repay her tender care
With gratitude and love!
HEN AND CHICKENS.
1
See, sister, where the chickens trip,All busy in the morn!
Look how their heads they dip and dip,
To peck the scattered corn!
2
Dear sister, shall we shut our eyes,And to the sight be blind,
Nor think of Him who food supplies
To us and all mankind?
3
Whether our wants be much or few,Or fine or coarse our fare,
To Heaven's protecting care is due
The voice of praise and prayer.
POOR MAN'S GRAVE.
1
Old Andrews of the hut is dead,And many a child appears,
Whilst slowly “dust to dust” is read,
Around his grave in tears.
245
2
A good man gone where small and great,And poor, and high and low,
And Dives, proud in worldly state,
And Lazarus, must go.
3
May we among the just be found,Though short our sojourn here,
Who, when the trump of death shall sound,
May hear it without fear!
SABBATH MORNING.
1
The Sabbath bells are knolling slow,The summer morn how fair!
Whilst father, mother, children go,
And seek the house of prayer.
2
Some, musing, roam the churchyard round,Some turn their heads with sighs,
And gaze upon the new-made ground
Where old Giles Summers lies.
3
But see the pastor in his band,The bells have ceased to knoll;
Now enter, and at God's command,
Think, Christian, of thy soul.
4
Whilst heavenly hopes around thee shine,As in God's presence live,
And calmer comforts shall be thine,
Than all the world can give.
246
THE PRIMROSE.
1
'Tis the first primrose! see how meek,Yet beautiful, it looks;
As just a lesson it may teach
As that we read in books.
2
While gardens show in flowering prideThe lily's stately ranks,
It loves its modest head to hide
Beneath the bramble banks.
3
And so the little cottage maidMay bloom unseen and die;
But she, when transient flowerets fade,
Shall live with Christ on high.
THE HOUR-GLASS.
1
As by my mother's side I stand,Whose hairs, alas, are few and gray,
I watch the hour-glass shed its sand,
To mark how wears the night away.
2
Though age must many ills endure,As time for ever runs away,
This shows her Christian comforts sure,
And leads to heaven's eternal day.
247
THE BIRD'S NEST.
1
In yonder brake there is a nest;But come not, George, too nigh,
Lest the poor mother, frightened thence,
Should leave her young, and fly!
2
Think with what pain, for many a day,Soft moss and straw she brought;
And let our own dear mother's care
Be present to our thought.
3
And think how must her heart deplore,And droop with grief and pain,
If those she reared, and nursed, and loved,
She ne'er should see again.
THE MOWER.
1
Hark to the mower's whistling blade!How steadily he mows!
The grass is heaped, the daisies fade,
All scattered as he goes.
2
The flowers of life may bloom and fade,But He in whom I trust,
Though cold and in my grave-clothes laid,
Can raise me from the dust.
248
SATURDAY NIGHT.
1
Come, let us, ere we go to bed,O'er the decaying embers chat,
Though little Mary hangs her head,
And strokes no more the purring cat.
2
And let us tell how prisoners pineIn silent dungeons dark and drear;
Whilst on each face the embers shine,
And all is calm and peaceful here.
3
The English cot is free from cares;But, see, the brand is wasted quite;
Come, little Mary, say your prayers;
Kiss, mother, kiss! good night, good night!
SUNDAY NIGHT.
1
Let us unfold God's holy book,And by the taper's light,
With hearts subdued, and sober look,
So spend the Sabbath night.
2
Where now the thoughts of anxious life,Its guilty pleasures, where?
Here dies its loud and mourning strife,
And all its sounds of care.
3
Let other views our hearts engross,To our Redeemer true,
Who seems expiring on the cross,
To say, I died for you!
249
THE APRIL SHOWER.
1
When rain-drops, glistening from the thatch,Like drops of silver run,
Our old blind grandame lifts the latch,
To feel the cheering sun.
2
She sees no rainbow in the sky,But when the cuckoo sung,
She thought upon the years gone by,
When she was blithe and young.
3
But God, who comforts want and age,Shall be her only friend,
And bless her till her pilgrimage
In silent dust shall end.
THE ROBIN REDBREAST.
1
Poor Robin sits and sings aloneWhen showers of driving sleet,
By the cold winds of winter blown,
The cottage casement beat.
2
Come, let him share our chimney nook,And dry his dripping wing;
See, little Mary shuts her book,
And cries, “Poor Robin, sing!”
3
Methinks I hear his faint reply:When cowslips deck the plain,
The lark shall carol in the sky,
And I shall sing again.
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4
But in the cold and wintry day,To you I owe a debt,
That in the sunshine of the May
I never can forget!
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.
1
Methought I heard a butterflySay to a labouring bee,
Thou hast no colours of the sky
On painted wings, like me.
2
Poor child of vanity! those dyes,And colours bright and rare,
With mild reproof, the bee replies,
Are all beneath my care.
3
Content I toil from morn till eve,And, scorning idleness,
To tribes of gawdy sloth I leave
The vanities of dress.
THE GLOW-WORM.
1
Oh, what is this which shines so bright,And in the lonely place
Hangs out his small green lamp at night,
The dewy bank to grace!
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2
It is a glow-worm, still and paleIt shines the whole night long,
When only stars, O nightingale,
Seem listening to thy song!
3
And so amid the world's cold night,Through good report or ill,
Shines out the humble Christian's light,
As lonely and as still.
THE CONVICT.
Luke Andrews is transported! Never moreTo see his sisters, mother, or the shore
Of his own country! Never more to see
The cottage smoke rise o'er the sheltering tree;
Never again beneath the morning beam,
Jocund, to drive afield his tinkling team!
When first the path of idleness he trod,
And left on Sabbath-days the house of God,
The fellowship of wild companions kept,
How oft at night his mother waked and wept!
When he is homeless, and far off at sea,
She now will sigh, Does he remember me!
Remember her! alas, the thought is vain!
She ne'er will see him in this world again.
And she is broken-hearted; but her trust,
Is still in Him whose works and ways are just.
Oh! may we still revere His dread command,
And die remembered in our native land!
252
THE BLIND GRANDFATHER.
1
Though grandfather has long been blind,And his few locks are gray,
He loves to hear the summer wind
Round his pale temples play.
2
We'll lead him to some quiet place,Some unfrequented nook,
Where winds breathe soft, and wild-flowers grace
The borders of the brook.
3
There he shall sit, as in a dream,Though nought can he behold,
Till the brook's murmuring flow shall seem
The voice of friends of old.
4
Think no more of them, aged man,For here thou hast no friend;
Think, since this life is but a span,
Of joys that have no end.
THE OLD LABOURER.
1
Are you not tired, you poor old man!The drops are on your brow;
Your labour with the sun began,
And you are labouring now!
2
I murmur not to dig the soil,For I have heard it read,
That man by industry and toil
Must eat his daily bread.
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3
The lark awakes me with his song,That hails the morning gray,
And when I mourn for human wrong,
I think of God, and pray.
4
Let worldlings waste their time and health,And try each vain delight;
They cannot buy, with all their wealth,
The labourer's rest at night.
THE SWAN.
1
Look at the swan! how still he goes!His neck and breast like silver gleam;
He seems majestic as he rows;
The glory of the lonely stream.
2
There is a glory in the war,A glory when the warrior wears
(His visage marked with many a scar)
The laurel wet with human tears.
3
Such scenes no glory can impart,With trumps, and drums, and noises rude,
Like that which fills his silent heart
Who walks with God in quietude.
THE VILLAGE BELLS.
1
Who does not love the village bells,Their cheerful peal, and solemn toll!
One of the rustic wedding tells,
And one bespeaks a parting soul.
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2
The lark in sunshine sings his song,And, dressed in garments white and gay,
The village lasses trip along,
For this is Susan's wedding-day.
3
Ah! gather flowers of sweetest hue,Young violets from the bank's green side,
And on poor Mary's coffin strew,
For in the bloom of life she died.
4
So passes life! the smile, the tear,Succeed, as in our path we stray,
Thy kingdom come, for we are here
As guests who tarry but a day.
THE CAGED BIRD.
Oh, who would keep a little bird confined,When cowslip bells are nodding in the wind;
When every hedge as with “good morrow” rings,
And, heard from wood to coombe, the blackbird sings!
Oh! who would keep a little bird confined
In his cold wiry prison? Let him fly,
And hear him sing: How sweet is liberty!
THE DUTIFUL CHILD
READING THE STORY OF JOSEPH TO A SICK FATHER.
Brother and sister are a-Maying gone;By my sick father's bed I watch alone;
Light in the sun, from field to field they roam,
To bring a cowslip-ball or May-thorn home;
255
Of Egypt, when his guilty brothers stand
Before him—but they know him not; aside
He turns his face, the bursting tears to hide:
Scarce to these words an utterance can he give;
I am your brother Joseph! Doth he live,
My father, the old man of whom ye speak?
And tears are falling on my father's cheek.
Though my loved mother rests among the dead,
And pain and sickness visit this sad bed,
We think not, whilst we turn the holy page,
Of this vain world—of sorrow and of age!
And oh, my father, I am blessed indeed,
Blessed for your sake, that I have learned to read!
LITTLE MARY'S LINNET.
1
Dear Mary, if thy little birdShould, all the winter long,
Pleased from the window to be heard,
Repay thee with a song;
2
A lesson let it still conveyTo all with sense endued;
And such the voice, oh! let it say,
The still small voice of love.
THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG.
1
My dog and I are both grown old;On these wild downs we watch all day;
He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,
And thus methinks I hear him say:
256
2
The gray stone circlet is below,The village smoke is at our feet;
We nothing hear but the sailing crow,
And wandering flocks, that roam and bleat.
3
Far off, the early horseman hies,In shower or sunshine rushing on;
Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies;
The distant coach is seen and gone.
4
Though solitude around is spread,Master, alone thou shalt not be;
And when the turf is on thy head,
I only shall remember thee!
5
I marked his look of faithful care,I placed my hand on his shaggy side;
There is a sun that shines above,
A sun that shines on both, I cried.
THE WITHERED LEAF.
1
Oh! mark the withered leaves that fallIn silence to the ground;
Upon the human heart they call,
And preach without a sound.
2
They say, So passes man's brief year!To-day, his green leaves wave;
To-morrow, changed by time, and sere,
He drops into the grave.
257
3
Let Wisdom be our sole concern,Since life's green days are brief!
And faith and heavenly hope shall learn
A lesson from the leaf.
THE GIPSY'S TENT.
1
When now cold winter's snows are fled,And birds sing blithe again,
Look where the gipsy's tent is spread,
In the green village lane.
2
Oft by the old park pales, beneathThe branches of the oak,
The watchdog barks, when, in slow wreath,
Curls o'er the woods the smoke.
3
No home receives the wandering race;The panniered ass is nigh,
Which patient bears from place to place
Their infant progeny.
4
Lo! houseless o'er the the world they stray,But I at home will dwell,
Where I may read my book and pray,
And hear the Sabbath-bell.
258
MY FATHER'S GRAVE.
1
My father's grave, I heard her say,And marked a stealing tear;
Oh, no! I would not go away,
My father's grave is here!
2
A thousand thronging sympathiesThe lonely spot endear,
And every eve remembrance sighs,
My father's grave is here!
3
Some sudden tears unbidden start,As spring's gay birds I hear,
For all things whisper to my heart,
My father's grave is here!
4
Young hope may blend each colour gay,And fairer views appear;
But, no! I will not go away,
My father's grave is here!
THE SWALLOW AND THE RED-BREAST.
AN APOLOGUE.
The swallows, at the close of day,When autumn shone with fainter ray,
Around the chimney circling flew,
Ere yet they bade a long adieu,
To climes where soon the winter drear
Shall close the unrejoicing year.
259
Now settle on the crowded roof,
As counsel and advice to take,
Ere they the chilly north forsake.
Then one, disdainful, turned his eye,
Upon a red-breast twittering nigh,
And thus began, with taunting scorn:
Thou household imp, obscure, forlorn,
Through the deep winter's dreary day,
Here, dull and shivering, shalt thou stay;
Whilst we, who make the world our home,
To softer climes impatient roam,
Where summer, still on some green isle
Rests, with her sweet and lovely smile?
Thus speeding, far and far away,
We leave behind the shortening day.
'Tis true (the red-breast answered, meek)
No other scenes I ask, or seek;
To every change alike resigned,
I fear not the cold winter's wind.
When spring returns, the circling year
Shall find me still contented here;
But whilst my warm affections rest
Within the circle of my nest,
I learn to pity those that roam,
And love the more my humble home.
THE BLIND MAN OF SALISBURY CATHEDRAL.
There is a poor blind man, who, every day,In summer sunshine, or in winter's rain,
Duly as tolls the bell, to the high fane
Explores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way,
260
The chaunted service, pealing full and clear.
Ask why alone in the same spot he kneels
Through the long year. Oh, the wide world is cold,
As dark, to him! Here he no longer feels
His sad bereavement. Faith and Hope uphold
His heart; he feels not he is poor and blind,
Amid the unpitying tumult of his mind.
As through the aisles the choral anthems roll,
His soul is in the choirs above the skies,
And songs far off of angel companies,
When this dim earth hath perished like a scroll.
Oh! happy if the rich, the vain, the proud—
The plumed actors in life's motley crowd—
Since pride is dust, and life itself a span,
Would learn one lesson from a poor blind man!
THE BLIND SOLDIER AND HIS DAUGHTER.
1
Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day,That shone on thy sabre, have long passed away,
And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray,
Old soldier!
2
The drum and the hurrahs, where victory led,No longer are heard on the battle-field red;
Thy comrades in glory are scattered or dead,
Old soldier!
2
Perhaps thou wert foremost of some gallant band,By Acre's white walls, or in that ancient land
Where the sphynx and gray pyramid shaded the sand,
Old soldier!
261
3
Left lonely and poor, but to fortune resigned,Forgetting the trumpet that clanged in the wind,
Thou turnest thy organ unnoticed and blind,
Old soldier!
4
That faded red jacket still speaks of some pride,And a dutiful daughter is seen at thy side,
To beat her light drum, and thy footsteps to guide,
Old soldier!
5
Ah! woe to the heart that would seek to betray,Or turn from a desolate father away,
That dutiful child, of thy age the last stay,
Old soldier!
6
But may every true Briton, whose country is dear,Bestow a small boon, now the season is drear,
Thy warm chimney corner at Christmas to cheer,
Old soldier!
7
Then the thought of the days of past glory shall spring,And wiping one tear from thy cheek, thou shalt sing,
Old England for ever, and God save the King!
Old soldier!
THE LITTLE SWEEP.
WRITTEN FOR JAMES MONTGOMERY'S CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S ALBUM.
1
They sing of the poor sailor-boy, who wanders o'er the deep,But few there are who think upon the friendless little sweep!
262
When the keen north wind is piping shrill, the shivering urchin goes.
2
He has no father; and from grief, his mother's eyes are dim,And none beside, in all the world, awakes to pray for him;
For him no summer Sundays smile, no health is in the breeze;
His mind is dark as his face, a prey to dire disease.
3
O English gentlemen! your hearts have bled for the black slave,—You heard his melancholy moan from the Atlantic wave;
He thought upon his father's land, and cried, A long farewell,
But blessed you, gazing at the sun, when first his fetters fell.
4
And if ye plead for creatures dumb, and deem their fate severe,Shall human wrongs, in your own land, call forth no generous tear?
Humanity implores; awake from apathy's cold sleep,
And when you plead for others' wrongs, forget not the poor sweep.
5
When summer comes, the bells shall ring, and flowers and hawthorns blow,The village lasses and the lads shall all a-Maying go:
263
Whose bounty at that season flows, to cheer the little sweep.
6
'Tis yours, ye English gentlemen, such comforts to prolong;'Tis yours the friendless to protect, and all who suffer wrong;
But one day in the toiling year the friendless sweep is gay,
Protect, and smiling industry shall make his long year May.
THE BLACKSMITH.
1
How cheerful in the winter's night,As down the lane I stray;
The blacksmith's forge shoots out its light,
And shines across the way!
2
The smith his labouring bellows blows,And now his stroke repeats;
Beats the red iron, as it glows,
And shapes it as he beats.
3
While, flash! the frequent sparkles fly,And tongs are hissing red;
Content and cheerful industry
Sweeten his daily bread.
264
HYMN FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
1
Lo! where youth and beauty lie,Cold within the tomb!
As the spring's first violets die,
Withered in their bloom.
O'er the young and buried bride,
Let the cypress wave:
A kingdom's hope, a kingdom's pride,
Recline in yonder grave.
2
Place the vain expected child,Gently, near her breast!
It never wept, it never smiled,
But seeks its mother's rest.
Hark! we hear the general cry!
Hark! the passing bell!
A thousand, thousand bosoms sigh,
A long and last farewell!
THE CHILDREN'S HYMN FOR THEIR PATRONESS.
1
On God, whose eyes are over all,Who shows to all a father's care,
First, with each voice, we children call,
And humbly raise our daily prayer.
2
And next, to her, who placed us here,The path of knowledge to pursue,
(Oh! witness all we have—a tear!)
Our heartfelt gratitude is due.
265
3
Our parents, when they draw their breath,In pain, and to the grave descend,
Shall smile upon the bed of death,
To think their children have a friend.
4
As slow our infant thoughts expand,And life unfolds its opening road,
We still shall bless the bounteous hand
That kind protection first bestowed.
5
And still, with fervour we shall pray,When she to distant scenes shall go;
That God, in blessing, might repay
The blessings which to her we owe!
EASTER DAY.
1
Who comes (my soul no longer doubt),Rising from earth's wormy sod,
And whilst ten thousand angels sing,
Ascends—ascends to heaven, a God?
2
Saviour, Lord, I know thee now!Mighty to redeem and save,
Such glory blazes on thy brow,
Which lights the darkness of the grave.
3
Saviour, Lord, the human soul,Forgotten every sorrow here,
Shall thus, aspiring to its goal,
Triumph in its native sphere.
266
CHRISTMAS HYMN.
1
Hark! angel voices from the skyProclaim a Saviour's birth;
Glory, they sing, to God on high,
Peace and goodwill on earth!
2
Catch the glad strain, ye seraphs bright!The glorious tidings spread;
Wake, wake to wonder and to light,
The dark sleep of the dead!
3
Let the wide earth, from shore to shore,One loud hosannah raise,
Glory to God, whom we adore;
Glory and hymns of praise!
| The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles | |