University of Virginia Library

Kings in gorgeous hues may shine;
But they cannot match with thine.
Warm and cold in mystic tie,
Accident and harmony
Combine to make a radiant world
In alternating tints unfurled.—
What bright glories are there hid
Underneath thy varnished lid!
What crisp landscapes from the eye
In thy colours latent lie!
No season of the rounding year
Brings a change which is not here.

Sometimes in the budding spring
Fresh with April's showering,
The early lark rejoicing loud
From his throne of gilded cloud,
We will linger by the fold
Whilst the morning is unrolled:
Birds with blissful carolling
Making all the woodland ring:
The throstle from the daisied croft
Warbling clear; the cuckoo oft
Calling through the flowery glen
Till the cliffs cuckoo again;
The lovèd linnet sweet of note
Straining merrily his throat,
And, in the mossy orchard near,
Red robin with so blithe a cheer
You could not think his winter strain
Was half so sad or full of pain.

Then, clothèd in her kirtle blue,
The merry milking-maid trips through,
With balanced pail, the garden hatch.
On the smoking cottage-thatch,
Streaming through the dewy boughs
Wavering sunshine twinkling flows;
And twittering swallows, round and round,
In airy circles skim the pond.

When the rook hath filled her nest
Lads and lasses don their best;
With rose and buckle well beseen,
Hasting to the village green,
Where the Maypole lifts its head
Wreath and ribbon-garlanded,
And keep the revel all day long
With mirth and laughter, dance and song.

Then let us climb, some sparkling morn,
The ridgèd mountain rent and torn
With storms of ages; toiling on
Towards the region of the sun;
Scarcely turning till we gaze
From the top in awed amaze.
Round us what a prospect lies,
From our rock-throne in the skies!
Snowy clouds below us creep;
Over valleys dark and deep
Rolling slow, like living things
Sailing on invisible wings:
Glimpses of the green world under
When their veil is rent asunder:
Gloomy forest; mountain pass;
Shining lakes of molten glass;
Silver-threaded rivers rolled
By town and village, farm and fold:
At the horizon's furthest rim
The ocean like a vapour dim.—
Ah, no longer we are mortal:
We have passed Death's dreary portal:
A wondrous region round us lies
Bright with dews of Paradise!

Sometimes, in the sultry noon
When the lark has sung his tune,
We will seek some sylvan nook
Where a clear and purling brook,
Shaded by thick-leavèd trees,
Ripples to the roving breeze
With a moan most musical
Broke by many a tumbling fall.
Amongst his crisping water-ways
The flashing troutlet frisks and plays,
From gurgling shallows leaping high
To catch the flitting dragon-fly:
Knee-deep the cows from neighbouring vale
Flap their sides with lazy tail.—
Here some book of antique lore.
Romaunt of love or troubadour,
Tournament or minstrel lay,
Shall help to dream the time away.

Or, in the middle of a mead
Fringed about with sedge and reed,
Let us, by some lonely pool,
Rest amidst the shadows cool:
Struggling through the alder-bush
Umbel of the flowering-rush;
Scented willowherb and brown
Spike of sturdy bulrush crown
Rising near; and where we lie,
Woodsorrel with its snowy eye
Opening through the tender green
Of moss and tiny leaf between:
A branchy network overhead
Of giant trees, and, high outspread,
A sky of purest summer blue
In chequered patches glinting through:
A withered oak, grown grey and old
Through a hundred winters' cold,
Knotted, gnarled and twisted so,
One wonders how it wished to grow,
Like some gaunt sibyl at the brink
Bends and bows, but may not drink.
We will read quaint legends there;
Many a story pictured clear;
Half unveiled the Future's face
On the dark unruffled glass.
Not a note of wakeful bird,
Near or far, is ever heard;
Not a breath or whisper stirs:
Still as a band of worshippers
Hushed in holy temple fanes
When one deep prayer each soul enchains.

Or, down the lane ablaze with furze
We will seek the haymakers;
Toss the perfumed grass abroad;
Or pile the huge top-heavy load:
Sometimes lolling in the sun
Fanned by luscious airs of June:
Or a tawny haycock's shade
Our half-sleepy couch be made,
Lulled by winds that softly roar
Through a neighbouring sycamore.

Then let us to the purple heath;
Inhale the fragrant sweetgale breath
Where the wide embrownèd ground
Stretches like an ocean round:
No sign of man that may be traced;
Not a tree to mark the waste:
Only narrow pools which lie
Shining to the shining sky:
Waving o'er the black morass
Tufted plumes of cottongrass;
Pale buckbean with fringèd flower
Sparkling under every shower;
Golden stars of asphodel,
With knops of clustered heatherbell
And tender sundew—broidery fair
Any queen might wish to wear.
We shall find the freckled snake
Sleeping in a tangled brake
Of cranberry and crooked-ling
Curlèd in a threefold ring:
Wheeling over where we sit
The curlew with a shrill ‘tewit’:
And buntings wailing round distrest
To lure us from the neighbouring nest.—
Then we dream midst breezes bland
Of some happy fairy land
On the curling cloud that lies
Anchored in the tranquil skies.
What wondrous visions may be known
From those snow-cliffs near the sun,
Where thin vapours roll and creep
By silvery tarns below the steep!
What glimmering glories might we find
In sheltered vales of low-blown wind:
Iris waves of shade and shine
Trembling through the air divine,
Weaving pearly tissue rare,
Web of frailest gossamer!
Then the purple bickering fires,
Cones of crimson-crested spires,
Golden-netted capes and flowers
Brighter, purer far than ours—
How shall words of poet sing
On this green earth muttering?—
Ah, how very sweet to be
In that blessèd land with thee,
In spiritual innocence,
Purified from sin and sense!—
Friendly winds that come and go
Blow us to that region, blow;
Help us to a loftier flight
Radiant roads of laddered light:
Or stoop, bright cloud, and bid us rise
With thee to azure-crownèd skies!

Then, where fretting eddies whirl,
We shall see the village girl,
In scarlet cloak and ribbon blue,
With happy features beaming through,
Flecked with lights and shadows warm,
A basket slung upon her arm,
Tripping timidly alone,
Pausing on a stepping-stone,
Watching with a maiden grace
The broken fragments of her face
Trembling in the dimpled pool.

Or children pouring out of school,
Where the sable-vested sage
Scans the torn and blotted page
With a rueful countenance—
Lowering cloud of stern mischance
To the culprit as he stands
Conic-capped with rod in hands.
Or, the heat and labour o'er,
The husbandman at cottage door;
Children climbing round his knee;
The mother smiling tranquilly;
Inhaling in contented mood
Breath of homely southernwood:
Sweets of honeysuckle met
By the scent of mignonette;
With such simple talk as may
Serve to wile the hour away:
Proving how hard toil may bless
Love's delicious idleness,
Wearing for a royal crown
Gold and jewels all its own:
So that many a king might pray
For such ending of a day.

Or, wandering through grave cedarn alleys,
Level lawns and terraced valleys,
Linden walks and laurel groves
Which the warbling blackbird loves,
We shall hear the ringdove call,
Tinkling fountains lightly fall,
And, more the charmèd sense to please,
Marble nymphs and deities
Ranged against the sober green:
Through ancestral elms are seen
Twisted chimney, gable high,
Turret tall against the sky,
Mullioned casement, round which grows,
In many a wreath, the gadding rose,
Where, gazing in and out by fits,
Queenlike Amaryllis sits
In panelled chamber cunning-wrought,
Dreaming in delicious thought;
Such sweet lights within her eyes
As through summer evenings rise;
Whose tralucent depths disclose
The fulness of the soul's repose;
Amber locks adropping down,
Glittering like an angel's crown
About her soft, peach-bloomèd cheek,
Around her ivory sculptured neck;
The mute lute fallen from her hand,
She dreams of some far-distant land
Where summer breathes perpetual calm
Through cinctured stems of fruited palm
And citron orchards blown upon
From groves of myrrh and cinnamon,
Home of humming-birds, where flies
The sailing bird of paradise;
Twining wreaths of odorous flowers
Engarlanding the rainbow bowers;
Peering through thick-clustered bine
Faint meres of tender hyaline;
Blossomed flakes of foliage rank
Hanging ravished o'er the bank,
Weeping many a spicy tear
For love of what is mirrored there.

When the bee with lulling chime
Roams the overblossomed thyme,
Buzzing over tufted plot
Of milkwort and sweet melilot,
Heath-cushioned let us dreaming lie
On some warm hill-top rising nigh
A sombre grove of murmurous pines,
As the summer day declines;
A golden river flowing through
Green sloping fields and hamlets blue;
Grey towers and white villages
Half hidden in ambrosial trees;
Oft crossing, stretched from heath and lane,
Dark hedgerows mark the varied plain;
From the speckled lea below
Comes, faintly borne, the heifer's low;
A railway train with trail of steam
Glides far away with faint-heard scream;
Over all, in farthest west,
The gorgeous sun sinks down to rest
Where the river, bright and wide
Rolls its crimson glowing tide
Towards the sea: from earth and skies
The glorious gates of Paradise
Half unclosed that men may gaze
Upon its splendour face to face.

Or, when day is almost gone,
Musing in some grove alone,
We will find the sacred spot:
Bubbling font or crystal grot,
Where the woodnymphs haunt and lave
Their snowy forms amidst the wave:
Or merry fairies frisk about
In wreathèd dance and jovial rout;
The scarèd owlet o'er the crew
Flitting with his wild ‘to-whoo!’
Whilst the nightingale her psalm
Sings softly through the distant calm.

Now the mist is on the meadow;
Grey trees neither light nor shadow;
Glimmering through the autumn morn
Sun-tanned stooks of sheavèd corn;
The low-breathed west is hushed, nor stirs
The dewy beaded gossamers
That hang where tawny bindweed throws
White cups about the brown hedgerows,
Where briony with berries green
And clustered blackberries are seen.
In the garth red apples mellow
Gleam through foliage autumn-yellow;
Luscious pear and purple plum:
Gold-banded wasps with thievish hum
Gorging at the sugary core.
Then let us, pencil-handed, pore
Where mingled tints and hues emboss
Each bole with vary-coloured moss—
Where tiny grasses wave and creep,
And small-eyed blossoms hide and peep—
Lair of lady-birds, rare prize
Of gorgeous-wingèd butterflies.

But, hark! what shouts and laughter come
Breeze-borne! It is the Harvest Home.
Yonder creaks the laden wain
Rocking down the dusty lane,
Brushed by overhanging boughs:
Berry-brown, with corn-wreathed brows,
Men and maidens lightly dancing
In the sunshine's golden glancing;
Chubby children fair to see
Overflowing in their glee.
When the happy day is done
We will join the mirth and fun;
Dance amongst the jovial throng;
Chorus to the reaper's song;
Crown the feast with foaming ale,
Jest and laugh and merry tale.

See the weary hollyhock
Drooping on its withered stalk;
In his last pale pink repose
Leans the rose against a rose;
Lilies sicken, fuchsias fail,
Fainting in the sunlight pale:
Still to mourn the ruin come
Aster and chrysanthemum,
Anemone and gentian blue
Where golden daffodillies blew.
Now the day is going to rest,
The red sun falling in the west;
Slowly waking from their sleep,
White mists through the valley creep;
Round the hill the vapour twines
Rising to its crest of pines,
Steeping chilly field and fold,
Whilst robin hides away for cold.
By the homestead ingle then
Gather gladly maids and men:
Nothing mirth and laughter stays,
Sitting by the cheerful blaze.
Tom must sing of Kit and Clare;
How they danced at wake and fair,
And how church-bells with merry tone
Rang them, one spring morning, one.
Then a tale of ghastly maid
Who walks in white the midnight glade;
Of wastes and blight that fall when she
Is heard in doleful minstrelsy.
All start up when John says, Hark!
Surely that was Juno's bark!
Then turn their fears with laughter light,
As each bids each a warm goodnight.

Hoary winter now is near,
Pale and cold, but blithe of cheer,
With jolly Christmas arm in arm,
Through frost and snow to keep him warm;
Ply his heart with generous wine
Till his old eyes twinkling shine;
Give him welcome so he send
A good yule log and genial friend,
Plum-puddings huge and junkets plenty,
Rosy lips and kisses dainty,
Holly green and mistletoe,
Large-hearted love for friend and foe,
Charity for beggar old,
And good frieze coat to warm the cold;
By cottage hearth, in lordly hall
Peace and mirth and merryfall.

Thus, dear friend, and still together
In stormy times and pleasant weather,
We will go through blame and praise
Placid in our pearly greys,
Unstained in white, unsoiled in mellow
Magic tones of brown and yellow;
Our world shall glow with radiant sheen,
In wondrous hues of red and green:
And when, at last, my trusty friend,
Our happy life shall come to end,
Buried together you and I
Will in some cemetery lie,
Quiet, in the breezy spot
Where we oft have toiled and thought;
An ample river flowing by:
No marble tomb to hide the sky,
But grass alive to sun and dew,
With modest daisies peeping through;
And but a simple headstone near
To tell the passer who lies there.