The Poems of John Clare :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh, thou Bliss! to riches known,
Stranger to the poor alone,
Giving most where none's requir'd,
Leaving none where most's desir'd;
Who, sworn friend to miser, keeps
Adding to his useless heaps
Gifts on gifts, profusely stor'd,
Till thousands swell the mouldy hoard:
While poor, shatter'd Poverty,
To advantage seen in me,
With his rags, his wants, and pain,
Waking pity but in vain,
Bowing, cringing at thy side,
Begs his mite, and is denied,
Oh, thou Blessing! let not me
Tell, as vain, my wants to thee;
Thou, by name of Plenty styl'd,
Fortune's heir, her favourite child.

'Tis a maxim—hunger feed,
Give the needy when they need;
He whom all profess to serve
The same maxim did observe:
Their obedience here, how well,
Modern times will plainly tell.
Hear my wants, nor deem me bold,
Not without occasion told:
Hear one wish, nor fail to give;
Use me well, and bid me live.

'Tis not great, what I solicit;
Was it more, thou couldst not miss it:
Now the cutting winter's come,
'Tis but just to find a home,
In some shelter, dry and warm,
That will shield me from the storm.
Toiling in the naked fields,
Where no bush a shelter yields,
Needy Labour dithering stands,
Beats and blows his numbing hands;
And upon the crumping snows
Stamps, in vain, to warm his toes.
Leaves are fled, that once had power
To resist a summer shower;
And the wind so piercing blows,
Winnowing small the drifting snows,
The summer shade of loaded bough
Would vainly boast a shelter now;
Piercing snows so searching fall,
They sift a passage through them all.
Though all's vain to keep him warm,
Poverty must brave the storm.
Friendship none, its aid to lend;
Health alone his only friend,
Granting leave to live in pain,
Giving strength to toil in vain,
To be, while winter's horrors last,
The sport of every pelting blast.

Oh, sad sons of Poverty!
Victims doom'd to misery;
Who can paint what pain prevails
O'er that heart which want assails?
Modest shame the pain conceals;
No one knows, but he who feels.
Oh, thou charm which Plenty crowns,
Fortune! smile, now winter frowns:
Cast around a pitying eye;
Feed the hungry, ere they die.
Think, oh! think upon the poor,
Nor against them shut thy door;
Freely let thy bounty flow
On the sons of want and woe.

Hills and dales no more are seen
In their dress of pleasing green;
Summer's robes are all thrown by,
For the clothing of the sky;
Snows on snows in heaps combine,
Hillocks, rais'd as mountains, shine,
And at distance rising proud,
Each appears a fleecy cloud.
Plenty! now thy gifts bestow;
Exit bid to every woe;
Take me in, shut out the blast,
Make the doors and windows fast;
Place me in some corner, where,
Lolling in an elbow chair,
Happy, blest to my desire,
I may find a rousing fire;
While in chimney-corner nigh,
Coal, or wood, a fresh supply,
Ready stands for laying on,
Soon as t'other's burnt and gone.
Now and then, as taste decreed,
In a book a page I'd read;
And, inquiry to amuse,
Peep at something in the news;

See who's married, and who's dead,
And who, though bankrupt, beg their bread:
While on hob, or table nigh,
Just to drink before I'm dry,
A pitcher at my side should stand,
With the barrel nigh at hand,
Always ready as I will'd,
When 'twas empty, to be fill'd;
And, to be possess'd of all,
A corner cupboard in the wall,
With store of victuals lin'd complete,
That when hungry I might eat.
Then would I, in Plenty's lap,
For the first time take a nap;
Falling back in easy lair,
Sweetly slumb'ring in my chair,
With no reflective thoughts to wake
Pains that cause my heart to ache,
Of contracted debts, long made,
In no prospect to be paid,
And, to want, sad news severe,
Of provisions getting dear:
While the winter, shocking sight,
Constant freezes day and night,
Deep and deeper falls the snow,
Labour's slack, and wages low.
These, and more, the poor can tell,
Known, alas, by them too well,
Plenty! oh, if blest by thee,
Never more should trouble me.
Hours and weeks will sweetly glide,
Soft and smooth as flows the tide,
Where no stones or choking grass
Force a curve ere it can pass:
And as happy, and as blest,
As beasts drop them down to rest,
When in pastures, at their will,
They have roam'd and eat their fill,
Soft as nights in summer creep,

So should I then fall asleep;
While sweet visions of delight,
So enchanting to the sight,
Sweetly swimming o'er my eyes,
Would sink me into ecstasies,
Nor would pleasure's dreams once more,
As they oft have done before,
Cause be to create a pain,
When I woke, to find them vain:
Bitter past, the present sweet,
Would my happiness complete.
Oh! how easy should I lie,
With the fire up-blazing high
(Summer's artificial bloom),
That like an oven keeps the room,
Or lovely May, as mild and warm:
While, without, the raging storm
Is roaring in the chimney-top,
In no likelihood to drop;
And the witchen-branches nigh,
O'er my snug box towering high,
That sweet shelter'd stands beneath,
In convulsive eddies wreathe.
Then while, tyrant-like, the storm
Takes delight in doing harm,
Down before him crushing all,
Till his weapons useless fall;
And as in oppression proud
Peal his howlings long and loud,
While the clouds, with horrid sweep,
Give (as suits a tyrant's trade)
The sun a minute's leave to peep,
To smile upon the ruins made;
And to make complete the blast,
While the hail comes hard and fast,
Rattling loud against the glass;
And the snowy sleets, that pass,
Driving up in heaps remain
Close adhering to the pane,

Stop the light, and spread a gloom,
Suiting sleep, around the room:
Oh, how blest 'mid these alarms,
I should bask in Fortune's arms,
Who, defying every frown,
Hugs me on her downy breast,
Bids my head lie easy down,
And on winter's ruins rest.
So upon the troubled sea,
Emblematic simile,
Birds are known to sit secure,
While the billows roar and rave,
Slumbering in their safety sure,
Rock'd to sleep upon the wave,
So would I still slumber on,
Till hour-telling clocks had gone,
And, from the contracted day,
One or more had click'd away.
Then with sitting wearied out,
I for change's sake, no doubt,
Just might wish to leave my seat,
And, to exercise my feet,
Make a journey to the door,
Put my nose out, but no more;
There to village taste agree,
Mark how times are like to be,
How the weather's getting on,
Peep in ruts where carts have gone.
Or, by stones, a sturdy stroke,
View the hole the boys have broke,
Crizzling, still inclin'd to freeze;
And the rime upon the trees.
Then, to pause on ills to come,
Just look upward on the gloom;
See fresh storms approaching fast,
View them busy in the air,
Boiling up the brewing blast,
Still fresh horrors scheming there.
Black and dismal, rising high

From the north, they fright the eye:
Pregnant with a thousand storms
Huddled in their icy arms,
Heavy hovering as they come,
Some as mountains seem—and some
Jagg'd as craggy rocks appear
Dismally advancing near;
Earth unable seems to bear
The huge mass that's moving there.
Fancy, at the cumbrous sight,
Chills and shudders with affright,
Fearing lest the air in vain
Strives her station to maintain,
And wearied, yielding to the skies,
The world beneath in ruin lies.
So may Fancy think and feign;
Fancy oft imagines vain;
Nature's laws, by wisdom penn'd,
Mortals cannot comprehend;
Power Almighty Being gave,
Endless Mercy stoops to save;
Causes, hid from mortals' sight,
Prove ‘whatever is, is right.’

Then to look again below,
Labour's former life I'd view,
Who, still beating through the snow,
Spite of storms their toils pursue,
Forc'd out by sad necessity,
That sad fiend that forces me.
Troubles, then no more my own,
Which I but too long had known,
Might create a care, a pain;
Then I'd seek my joys again,
Pile the fire up, fetch a drink,
Then sit down again and think;
Pause on all my sorrows past,
Think how many a bitter blast,
When it snow'd, and hail'd, and blew,

I have toil'd and batter'd through,
And how many a lengthen'd day,
Half the night as one may say,
Weary lowking in a barn,
Humble twenty pence to earn.
Then to ease reflective pain,
To my sports I'd fall again,
Till the clock had counted ten,
When I'd seek my downy bed,
Easy, happy, and well fed.

Then might peep the morn, in vain,
Through the rimy misted pane;
Then might bawl the restless cock,
And the loud-tongued village clock;
And the flail might lump away,
Waking soon the dreary day:
They should never waken me,
Independent, blest, and free;
Nor, as usual, make me start,
Yawning sigh with heavy heart,
Loath to ope my sleepy eyes,
Weary still, in pain to rise,
With aching bones and heavy head,
Worse than when I went to bed.
With nothing then to raise a sigh,
Oh, how happy should I lie
Till the clock was eight, or more,
Then proceed as heretofore.
Best of blessings! sweetest charm!
Boon these wishes while they're warm;
My fairy visions ne'er despise;
As reason thinks, thou realize:
Depress'd with want and poverty,
I sink, I fall, denied by thee.

A SUNSET

Ah, just as well as if but yesternight
I do remember on that self-same hill
I dropt me down with exquisite delight;
The very hawthorn bush is standing still
From whence I sought a twig of blooming may
And stuck it to my bosom when at rest.
Oh, 'twas a lovely eve; the lambs at play
Scampt round and round the hill, and in the west
The clouds of purple and of crimson dye
Were huddled up together in a heap,
And o'er the scented wide world's edge did lie
Resting as quiet as if lulled to sleep.
I gazed upon them with a wishing eye,
And longed but vainly for the painter's power
To give existence to the mingling dye
And snatch a beauty from an evening hour.
But soft and soft it lost itself in night,
And changed and changed in many a lumined track;
I felt concerned to see it leave the sight
And hide its lovely face in blanking black.

ON CRUELTY

Compassion sighs, and feels, and weeps,
Retracing every pain
Inhuman man, in vengeance, heaps
On all the lower train.

Ah, Pity! oft thy heart has bled,
As galling now it bleeds;
And tender tears thy eyes have shed
To witness cruel deeds.

The lash that weal'd poor Dobbin's hide,
The strokes that cracking fall
On dogs, dumb cringing by thy side—
Ah! thou hast felt them all.

The burthen'd asses, 'mid the laugh
To see them whipp'd, would move
Thy soul to breathe in their behalf
Humanity and love.

E'en 'plaining flies to thee have spoke,
Poor trifles as they be;
And oft the spider's web thou'st broke,
To set the captive free.

The pilfering mouse, entrapp'd and cag'd
Within the wiry grate,
Thy pleading powers has oft engag'd
To mourn its rigid fate.

How beat thy breast with conscious woes,
To see the sparrows die:
Poor little thieves of many foes,
Their food they dearly buy.

Where nature groans, where nature cries
Beneath the butcher's knife,
How vain, how many were thy sighs,
To save such guiltless life.

And ah! that most inhuman plan,
Where reason's name's ador'd,
Unfriendly treatment man to man
Thy tears have oft deplor'd.

Nor wise nor good shall e'er deride
The tear in Pity's eye;
Though laugh'd to scorn by senseless pride,
From them it meets a sigh.

100

CRAZY NELL

A TRUE STORY

The sun was low sinking behind the far trees,
And, crossing the path, humming home were the bees;
And darker and darker it grew by degrees,
And crows they flock'd quawking to rest:
When, unknown to her parents, Nell slove on her hat,
And o'er the fields hurried—scarce knew she for what;
But her sweetheart, in taking advantage and that,
Had kiss'd, and had promis'd the best.

Poor maidens! of husbands so much they conceit,
The daisy scarce touch'd rose unhurt from her feet,
So eager she hasten'd her lover to meet,
As to make him to wait was unjust;
On the wood, dim discover'd, she fixed her eyes—
Such a queer spot to meet in—suspicions might rise;
But the fond word ‘a sweetheart’ such goodness implies,
Ah, who would a lover distrust!

More gloomy and darker—black clouds hung the wind,
Far objects diminish'd before and behind,
More narrow and narrow the circle declin'd,
And silence reign'd awfully round,

101

When Nelly within the wood-riding sat down;
She listen'd, and lapp'd up her arms in her gown;
Far, far from her cottage, and far from the town,
And her sweetheart not yet to be found.

The minutes seem'd hours—with impatience she heard
The flap of a leaf, and the twit of a bird;
The least little trifle that whisper'd or stirr'd,
Hope pictur'd her lover as nigh:
When wearied with sitting, she wander'd about,
And open'd the wood-gate, and gave a look out;
And fain would have halloo'd, but fear had a doubt
That thieves might be lurking hard by.

Far clocks count eleven—‘He won't be long now,’
Her anxious hopes whisper'd—hoarse wav'd the wood bough;
—‘He heeds not my fears, or he's false to his vow!’
Poor Nelly sat doubtful, and sigh'd:
The man who had promis'd her husband to be,
And to wed on the morrow—her friends all could see
That a good-for-naught sort of a fellow was he,
And they hoped nothing worse might betide.

At length, as in fear, slowly tapp'd the wood-gate;
'Twas Ben!—she complain'd so long painful to wait:
Deep design hung his looks, he but mumbled, ‘'Tis late,’
And pass'd her, and bid her come on.
The mind plainly pictures that night-hour of dread,
In the midst of a wood! where the trees overhead
The darkness increased—a dungeon they spread,
And the clock at the moment toll'd one!

Nell fain would have forc'd, as she follow'd, some chat,
And trifled, on purpose, with this thing and that,
And complain'd of the dew-droppings spoiling her hat;
But nothing Ben's silence would break.
Extensive the forest, the roads to and fro,
And this way and that way, above and below,
As crossing the ridings, as winding they go—
‘Ah! what road or way can he seek?’

102

Her eye, ever watchful, now caught an alarm;
Lights gleam, and tools tinkle, as if nigh a farm:
‘Oh, don't walk so fast, Ben—I'm fearful of harm!
She said, and shrugg'd closer behind.
‘That light's from my house!’ 'twas the first word she caught
From his lips, since he through the dark wood had her brought.
A house in a wood! Oh, good God! what a thought;
What sensations then rush'd on her mind!

The things which her friends and her neighbours had said
Afresh at that moment all jump'd in her head;
And mistrust, for the first time, now fill'd her with dread:
And as she approach'd, she could see
How better, for her, their advice to have ta'en;
And she wish'd to herself then she had—but in vain:
—A heap of fresh mould, and a spade, she saw plain,
And a lantern tied up to a tree.

‘Here they come!’ a voice whispers;—‘Haste! put out the light.’
‘No: dig the grave deeper!’—‘Very dark is the night.’
Slow mutterings mingled.—Oh, dismal the sight!
—The fate of poor Nelly was plain.
Fear chill'd through her heart—but Hope whisper'd her—Fly!
Chance seiz'd on the moment, a wind-gust blew high,
She slipt in the thicket—he turn'd not his eye,
And the grave-diggers waited in vain.

At that fearful moment, so dreadfully dark,
How welcome the song of the shepherd, or lark;
How cheery to listen, and hear the dog bark,
As through the dark wood she fled fast:
But, horror of horrors, all nature was hush!
Not a sound was there heard—save a blackbird, or thrush,
That, started from sleep, flusker'd out of the bush,
Which her brushing clothes shook as they past.

Fear now truly pictur'd: she ne'er turn'd her head
Either this way or that way—straight forward she fled;

103

And Fancy, still hearing the horrors with dread,
On faster and fearfuller stole.
The matted leaves rustle—the boughs swiftly part,
Her hands and her face with the brambles did smart;
But, oh! the worst anguish was felt at her heart—
Ben's unkindness struck death to her soul.

Now glimmering lighter the forest appears,
And Hope, the sweet comforter, soften'd her fears;
Light and liberty, Darkness! thy horror endears;
Great bliss did the omen impart:
The forest, its end, and its terrors gone by,
She breath'd the free air, and she saw the blue sky;
Her own fields she knew—to her home did she fly,
And great was the joy of her heart.

Oh, prospect endearing! the village to view,
The morn sweet appearing,—and gay the cock crew,
When, mangled by brambles and dabbled in dew,
She gave a loud rap at the door:
The parents in raptures wept over their child;
She mutter'd her terrors—her eyes rolled wild—
‘They dig the grave deeper!—Your Nelly's beguil'd!’
She said, and she siled on the floor.

Poor Nell soon recover'd; but, ah! to her cost,
Her sense and her reason for ever were lost:
And scorch'd by the summer, and chill'd by the frost,
A maniac, restless and wild,
Now crazy Nell rambles; and still she will weep,
And, fearless, at night into hovels will creep.
Fond parents! alas, their affliction is deep,
And vainly they comfort their child.

116

A SCENE

The landskip's stretching view, that opens wide,
With dribbling brooks, and river's wider floods,
And hills, and vales, and darksome lowering woods,
With grains of varied hues and grasses pied;
The low brown cottage in the shelter'd nook;
The steeple, perking just above the trees
Whose dangling leaves keep rustling in the breeze;
And thoughtful shepherd bending o'er his hook;
And maidens stript, haymaking too, appear;
And Hodge a-whistling at his fallow plough;
And herdsman hallooing to intruding cow:
All these, with hundreds more, far off and near,
Approach my sight; and please to such excess,
That language fails the pleasure to express.

126

TO RELIGION

Thou sacred light, that right from wrong discerns;
Thou safeguard of the soul, thou heaven on earth;
Thou undervaluer of the world's concerns;
Thou disregarder of its joys and mirth;
Thou only home the houseless wanderers have;
Thou prop by which the pilgrim's woes are borne;
Thou solace of the lonely hermit's cave,
That beds him down to rest on fate's sharp thorn;
Thou only hope to sorrow's bosom given;
Thou voice of mercy when the weary call;
Thou faith extending to thy home in heaven;
Thou peace, thou rest, thou comfort, all in all:
O sovereign good! on thee all hopes depend,
Till thy grand source unfolds its realizing end.

128

TO MY MOTHER

With filial duty I address thee, Mother,
Thou dearest tie which this world's wealth possesses;
Endearing name! no language owns another
That half the tenderness and love expresses;
The very word itself breathes the affection,
Which heaves the bosom of a luckless child
To thank thee, for that care and that protection,
Which once, where fortune frowns, so sweetly smil'd.
Ah, oft fond memory leaves its pillow'd anguish,
To think when in thy arms my sleep was sound;
And now my startled tear oft views thee languish,
And fain would drop its honey in the wound:
But I am doom'd the sad reverse to see,
Where the worst pain I feel is loss of helping thee.

163

HOLYWELL

Nature, thou accept the song,
To thee the simple lines belong,
Inspir'd as brushing hill and dell
I stroll'd the way to Holywell.
Though 'neath young April's watery sky,
The sun gleam'd warm, and roads were dry;
And though the valleys, bush, and tree
Still naked stood, yet on the lea
A flush of green, and fresh'ning glow,
In melting patches 'gan to show
That swelling buds would soon again
In summer's livery bless the plain.
The thrushes too 'gan clear their throats,
And got by heart some two'r three notes
Of their intended summer-song,
To cheer me as I stroll'd along.
The wild heath triumph'd in its scenes
Of goss and ling's perpetual greens;
And just to say that spring was come,
The violet left its woodland home,
And, hermit-like, from storms and wind
Sought the best shelter it could find,
'Neath long grass banks, with feeble powers
Peeping faintly purple flowers:
While oft unhous'd from beds of ling

164

The fluskering pheasant took to wing,
And bobbing rabbits, wild and shy,
Their white tails glancing on the eye,
Just prick'd their long ears list'ning round,
And sought their coverts underground.
The heath was left, and then at will
A road swept gently round the hill,
From whose high crown, as soodling by,
A distant prospect cheer'd my eye,
Of closes green and fallows brown,
And distant glimpse of cot and town,
And steeple beck'ning on the sight,
By morning sunbeams painted white,
And darksome woods with shadings sweet,
To make the landscape round complete,
And distant waters glist'ning by,
As if the ground were patch'd with sky;
While on the blue horizon's line
The far-off things did dimly shine,
Which wild conjecture only sees,
And fancy moulds to clouds and trees,
Thinking, if thither she could fly,
She'd find the close of earth and sky;
But as we turn to look again
On nearest objects, wood and plain,
(So truths than fiction lovelier seem),
One warms as wak'ning from a dream.
From covert hedge, on either side,
The blackbirds flutter'd terrified,
Mistaking me for pilfering boy
That doth too oft their nests destroy;
And ‘prink, prink, prink,’ they took to wing,
In snugger shades to build and sing.
From tufted grass or bush, the hare
Oft sprung from her endanger'd lair;
Surprise was startled on her rout,
So near one's feet she bolted out.
The sun each tree-top mounted o'er,
And got church-steeple height or more:

165

And as I soodled on and on,
The ground was warm to look upon,
It e'en invited one to rest,
And have a nap upon its breast:
But thought upon my journey's end,
Where doubtful fancies did depend,
Urg'd on my lazy feet to roam,
Like truant school-boy kept from home,
I oped each gate with idle swing,
And stood to listen ploughmen sing;
While cracking whip and jingling gears
Recall'd the toils of boyish years,
When, like to them, I took my rounds
O'er elting moulds of fallow grounds—
With feet nigh shoeless, paddling through
The bitterest blasts that ever blew,
And napless beaver, weather'd brown,
That want oft wore without its crown:
A poor, unfriended, ragged boy,
Prest ere a child with man's employ.
'Tis past—'tis gone!—in musings lost
So thought I, leaning o'er the post;
And even jump'd with joy to see
Kind fate so highly favour me—
To clear the storms of boyish hours,
And manhood's opening strew with flowers;
To bid such hopes man's summer blow,
As boy's weak spring dare never sow;
And every day desires, at will,
To make each hope bloom brighter still.
With joys as sweet as heart could melt,
With feelings dear as e'er were felt,
I met at last, as like a spell,
The 'witching views of Holywell;
Where hills tower'd high their crowns with pride,
And vales dropp'd headlong by their side,
Bestriped with shades of green and gray,
The firdale and the naked spray;
While, underneath their mingling grains,

166

The river silver'd down the plains,
And bolted on the stranger's sight,
As stars blink out from clouds at night.
Beside the stream a cotter's shed
Low in the hollow heav'd its head:
Its tenants seem'd as snug to dwell
As lives a bee within its cell;
Its chimney-top high ash embowers;
Beside its wall the river pours
Its guggling sounds in whirling sweep,
That e'en might lull a child to sleep.
Before the door, untrod wi' pads,
The greensward many a beauty adds;
And daisy there, and cowslip too,
And buttercups of golden hue,
The children meet as soon as sought,
And gain their wish as soon as thought;
Who oft, I ween, the children's way,
Will leap the threshold's bounds to play,
And spite of parents' chiding calls
Will straggle where the water falls,
And 'neath the hanging bushes creep
For violet-bud and primrose-peep,
And sigh with anxious, eager dream,
For water-blobs amid the stream;
And up the hill-side turn anon,
To pick the daisies one by one:
Then anxious to their cottage bound,
To show the prize their searches found,
Whose medley flowers, red, white, and blue,
As well can please their parents too;
And as their care and skill contrive,
In flower-pots many a day survive.

Ah, thus conjecturing, musing still,
I cast a look from off the hill,
And loll'd me 'gainst a propping tree,
And thought for them as 'twas with me:
I did the same in April time,

167

And spoilt the daisy's earliest prime,
Robb'd every primrose root I met,
And oft-times got the root to set,
And joyful home each nosegay bore,
And felt—as I shall feel no more.

190

SOLITUDE

Now as even's warning bell
Rings the day's departing knell,
Leaving me from labour free,
Solitude, I'll walk with thee:

191

Whether 'side the woods we rove,
Or sweep beneath the willow grove;
Whether sauntering we proceed
'Cross the green, or down the mead;
Whether, sitting down, we look
On the bubbles of the brook;
Whether, curious, waste an hour,
Pausing o'er each tasty flower;
Or, expounding nature's spells,
From the sand pick out the shells;
Or, while lingering by the streams,
Where more sweet the music seems,
Listen to the soft'ning swells
Of some distant chiming bells
Mellowing sweetly on the breeze,
Rising, falling by degrees,
Dying now, then wak'd again
In full many a 'witching strain,
Sounding, as the gale flits by,
Flats and sharps of melody.

Sweet it is to wind the rill,
Sweet with thee to climb the hill,
On whose lap the bullock free
Chews his cud most placidly;
Or o'er fallows bare and brown
Beaten sheep-tracks wander down,
Where the mole unwearied still
Roots up many a crumbling hill,
And the little chumbling mouse
Gnarls the dead weed for her house,
While the plough's unfeeling share
Lays full many a dwelling bare;
Where the lark with russet breast
'Hind the big clod hides her nest,
And the black snail's founder'd pace
Finds from noon a hiding-place,
Breaking off the scorching sun
Where the matted twitches run.

192

Solitude! I love thee well,
Brushing through the wilder'd dell,
Picking from the ramping grass
Nameless blossoms as I pass,
Which the dews of eve bedeck,
Fair as pearls on woman's neck;
Marking shepherds rous'd from sleep
Blundering off to fold their sheep,
And the swain, with toils distrest,
Hide his tools to seek his rest:
While the cows, with hobbling strides,
Twitching slow their fly-bit hides,
Rub the pasture's creaking gate,
Milking maids and boys to wait.
Or as sunshine leaves the sky,
As the daylight shuts her eye,
Sweet it is to meet the breeze
'Neath the shade of hawthorn trees,
By the pasture's wilder'd round,
Where the pismire hills abound,
Where the blushing fin-weed's flower
Closes up at even's hour:
Leaving then the green behind,
Narrow hoof-plod lanes to wind,
Oak and ash embower'd beneath,
Leading to the lonely heath,
Where the unmolested furze
And the burdock's clinging burs,
And the briers, by freedom sown,
Claim the wilder'd spots their own.

There while we the scene survey
Deck'd in nature's wild array,
Swell'd with ling-clad hillocks green
Suiting the disorder'd scene,
Haply we may rest us then
In the banish'd herdsman's den;
Where the wattled hulk is fixt,
Propt some double oak betwixt,

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Where the swain the branches lops,
And o'erhead with rushes tops;
Where, with woodbine's sweet perfume,
And the rose's blushing bloom,
Loveliest ceiling of the bower,
Arching in, peeps many a flower;
While a hill of thyme so sweet,
Or a moss'd stone, forms a seat.
There, as 'tween-light hangs the eve,
I will watch thy bosom heave;
Marking then the darksome flows
Night's gloom o'er thy mantle throws;
Fondly gazing on thine eye
As it rolls its ecstasy,
When thy solemn musings caught
Tell thy soul's absorb'd in thought;
When thy finely folded arm
O'er thy bosom beating warm
Wraps thee melancholy round;
And thy ringlets wild unbound
On thy lily shoulders lie,
Like dark streaks in morning's sky.
Peace and silence sit with thee,
And peace alone is heaven to me:
While the moonlight's infant hour
Faint 'gins creep to gild the bower,
And the wattled hedge gleams round
Its diamond shadows on the ground.
Oh, thou soothing Solitude,
From the vain and from the rude,
When this silent hour is come,
And I meet thy welcome home,
What balm is thine to troubles deep,
As on thy breast I sink to sleep;
What bliss on even's silence flows,
When thy wish'd opiate brings repose.

And I have found thee wondrous sweet,
Sheltering from the noon-day heat,

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As 'neath hazels I have stood
In the gloomy hanging wood,
Where the sunbeams, filtering small,
Freckling through the branches fall;
And the flapping leaf the ground
Shadows, flitting round and round:
Where the glimmering streamlets wreathe
Many a crooked root beneath,
Unseen gliding day by day
O'er their solitary way,
Smooth or rough, as onward led
Where the wild-weed dips its head,
Murmuring—dribbling drop by drop
When dead leaves their progress stop—
Or winding sweet their restless way
While the frothy bubbles play.
And I love thy presence drear
In such wildernesses, where
Ne'er an axe was heard to sound,
Or a tree's fall gulsh'd the ground,
Where (as if that spot could be)
First foot-mark'd the ground by me,
All is still, and wild, and gay,
Left as at creation's day.
Pleasant too it is to look
For thy steps in shady nook,
Where, by hedge-side coolly led,
Brooks curl o'er their sandy bed,
On whose tide the clouds reflect,
In whose margin flags are freckt;
Where the waters, winding blue,
Single-arch'd brig flutter through,
While the willow-branches grey
Damp the sultry eye of day,
And in whispers mildly sooth
Chafe the mossy keystone smooth;
Where the banks, beneath them spread,
Level in an easy bed;
While the wild-thyme's pinky bells

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Circulate reviving smells;
And the breeze, with feather-feet,
Crimping o'er the waters sweet,
Trembling fans the sun-tann'd cheek,
And gives the comfort one would seek.
Stretching there in soft repose,
Far from peace and freedom's foes,
In a spot, so wild, so rude,
Dear to me is solitude!
Soothing then to watch the ground—
Every insect flitting round,
Such as painted summer brings—
Lady-fly with freckled wings,
Watch her up the tall bent climb;
And from knotted flowers of thyme,
Where the woodland banks are deckt,
See the bee his load collect;
Mark him turn the petals by,
Gold dust gathering on his thigh,
As full many a hum he heaves,
While he pats th'intruding leaves,
Lost in many a heedless spring,
Then wearing home on heavy wing.

But when sorrows more oppress,
When the world brings more distress,
Wishing to despise as then
Brunts of fate, and scorn of men;
When fate's demons thus intrude,
Then I seek thee, Solitude,
Where the abbey's height appears
Hoary 'neath a weight of years;
Where the mouldering walls are seen
Hung with pellitory green;
Where the steeple's taper stretch
Tires the eye its length to reach,
Dizzy, nauntling high and proud,
Top-stone losing in a cloud;
Where the cross, to time resign'd,

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Creaking harshly in the wind,
Crowning high the rifted dome,
Points the pilgrim's wish'd-for home;
While the look fear turns away,
Shuddering at its dread decay.
There let me my peace pursue
'Neath the shades of gloomy yew,
Doleful hung with mourning green,
Suiting well the solemn scene;
There, that I may learn to scan
Mites illustrious, called man,
Turn with thee the nettles by
Where the grave-stone meets the eye,
Soon, full soon to read and see
That all below is vanity;
And man, to me a galling thing,
Own'd creation's lord and king,
A minute's length, a zephyr's breath,
Sport of fate, and prey of death,
Tyrant to-day, to-morrow gone,
Distinguish'd only by a stone,
That fain would have the eye to know
Pride's better dust is lodg'd below—
While worms like me are mouldering laid,
With nothing set to say ‘they're dead’—
All the difference, trifling thing,
That notes at last the slave and king.
As wither'd leaves, life's bloom when stopt,
That drop in autumn, so they dropt;
As snails, which in their painted shell
So snugly once were known to dwell,
When in the schoolboy's care we view
The pleasing toys of varied hue,
By age or accident are flown,
The shell left empty, tenant gone—
So pass we from the world's affairs,
And careless vanish from its cares;
So leave, with silent, long farewell,
Vain life—as left the snail his shell.

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All this when there my eyes behold
On every stone and heap of mould,
Solitude, though thou art sweet,
Solemn art thou then to meet;
When with list'ning pause I look
Round the pillar's ruin'd nook;
Glooms revealing, dim descried,
Ghosts, companion'd by thy side;
Where in old deformity
Ancient arches sweep on high,
And the aisles, to light unknown,
Create a darkness all their own;
Save the moon, as on we pass,
Splinters through the broken glass,
Or the torn roof, patch'd with cloud,
Or the crack'd wall, bulg'd and bow'd—
Glimmering faint along the ground,
Shooting solemn and profound,
Lighting up the silent gloom
Just to read an ancient tomb,
'Neath where, as it gliding creeps
We may see some abbot sleeps;
And as on we mete the aisle,
Daring scarce to breathe the while
Soft as creeping feet can fall,
While the damp green-stained wall
Swift the startled ghost flits by,
Mocking murmurs faintly sigh,
Reminding our intruding fear
Such visits are unwelcome here.
Seemly then, from hollow urn,
Gentle steps our steps return;
E'er so soft and e'er so still,
Check our breath or how we will,
List'ning spirits still reply
Step for step, and sigh for sigh,
Murmuring o'er one's weary woe,
Such as once 'twas theirs to know,
They whisper to such slaves as me,

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A buried tale of misery:
‘We once had life, ere life's decline,
Flesh, blood, and bones, the same as thine;
We knew its pains, and shar'd its grief,
Till death, long wish'd-for, brought relief;
We had our hopes, and like to thee,
Hoped morrow's better day to see,
But like to thine, our hope the same,
To-morrow's kindness never came:
We had our tyrants, e'en as thou;
Our wants met many a scornful brow;
But death laid low their wealthy powers,
Their harmless ashes mix with ours:
And this vain world, its pride, its form,
That treads on thee as on a worm,
Its mighty heirs—the time shall be
When they as quiet sleep by thee!’

Oh, here's thy comfort, Solitude,
When overpowering woes intrude!
Then thy sad, thy solemn dress
Owns the balm my soul to bless;
Here I judge the world aright,
Here see vain man in his true light,
Learn patience, in this trying hour,
To gild life's brambles with a flower,
Take pattern from the hints thou'st given,
And follow in thy steps to heaven.

222

THE LAST OF MARCH

WRITTEN AT LOLHAM BRIGS

Though o'er the darksome northern hill
Old ambush'd winter frowning flies,
And faintly drifts his threatenings still
In snowy sleet and blackening skies;
Yet where the willow leaning lies
And shields beneath the budding flower,
Where banks to break the wind arise,
'Tis sweet to sit and spend an hour.

Though floods of winter bustling fall
Adown the arches bleak and blea,
Though snow-storms clothe the mossy wall,
And hourly whiten o'er the lea;
Yet when from clouds the sun is free
And warms the learning bird to sing,
'Neath sloping bank and sheltering tree
'Tis sweet to watch the creeping spring.

Though still so early, one may spy
And track her footsteps every hour;
The daisy with its golden eye,
And primrose bursting into flower;
And snugly, where the thorny bower
Keeps off the nipping frost and wind,
Excluding all but sun and shower,
There children early violets find.

223

Here 'neath the shelving bank's retreat
The horse-blob swells its golden ball;
Nor fear the lady-smocks to meet
The snows that round their blossoms fall:
Here by the arch's ancient wall
The antique eldern buds anew;
Again the bulrush sprouting tall
The water wrinkles, rippling through.

As spring's warm herald April comes,
As nature's sleep is nearly past,
How sweet to hear the wakening hums
Of aught beside the winter blast!
Of feather'd minstrels first and last,
The robin's song's again begun;
And, as skies clear when overcast,
Larks rise to hail the peeping sun.

The stirtling peewits, as they pass,
Scream joyous whizzing overhead,
Right glad the fields and meadow grass
Will quickly hide their careless shed:
The rooks, where yonder witchens spread,
Quawk clamorous to the spring's approach;
Here silent, from its watery bed,
To hail its coming, leaps the roach.

While stalking o'er the fields again
In stripp'd defiance to the storms,
The hardy seedsman spread the grain,
And all his hopeful toil performs:
In flocks the timid pigeon swarms,
For scatter'd kernels chance may spare;
And as the plough unbeds the worms,
The crows and magpies gather there.

Yon bullocks low their liberty,
The young grass cropping to their fill;
And colts, from straw-yards neighing free,
Spring's opening promise 'joy at will:

224

Along the bank, beside the rill
The happy lambkins bleat and run,
Then weary, 'neath a sheltering hill
Drop basking in the gleaming sun.

At distance from the water's edge,
On hanging sallow's farthest stretch,
The moor-hen 'gins her nest of sedge
Safe from destroying schoolboy's reach.
Fen-sparrows chirp and fly to fetch
The wither'd reed-down rustling nigh,
And, by the sunny side the ditch,
Prepare their dwelling warm and dry.

Again a storm encroaches round,
Thick clouds are darkening deep behind;
And, through the arches, hoarsely sound
The risings of the hollow wind:
Spring's early hopes seem half resign'd,
And silent for a while remain;
Till sunbeams broken clouds can find,
And brighten all to life again.

Ere yet a hailstone pattering comes,
Or dimps the pool the rainy squall,
One hears, in mighty murmuring hums,
The spirit of the tempest call:
Here sheltering 'neath the ancient wall
I still pursue my musing dreams,
And as the hailstones round me fall
I mark their bubbles in the streams.

Reflection here is warm'd to sigh,
Tradition gives these brigs renown,
Though heedless Time long pass'd them by
Nor thought them worthy noting down:
Here in the mouth of every clown
The ‘Roman road’ familiar sounds;
All else, with everlasting frown,
Oblivion's mantling mist surrounds.

225

These walls the work of Roman hands!
How may conjecturing Fancy pore,
As lonely here one calmly stands,
On paths that age has trampled o'er.
The builders' names are known no more;
No spot on earth their memory bears;
And crowds, reflecting thus before,
Have since found graves as dark as theirs.

The storm has ceas'd—again the sun
The ague-shivering season dries;
Short-winded March, thou'lt soon be done,
Thy fainting tempest mildly dies.
Soon April's flowers and dappled skies
Shall spread a couch for lovely May,
Upon whose bosom Nature lies
And smiles her joyous youth away.

237

A LOOK AT THE HEAVENS

Oh, who can witness with a careless eye
The countless lamps that light an evening sky,
And not be struck with wonder at the sight!
To think what mighty Power must there abound,
That burns each spangle with a steady light,
And guides each hanging world its rolling round.
What multitudes my misty eyes have found!
The countless numbers speak a Deity:
In numbers numberless the skies are crown'd,
And still they're nothing which my sight can see,
When science, searching through her aiding glass,
In seeming blanks to me can millions trace;
While millions more, that every heart impress,
Still brighten up throughout eternal space.
O Power Almighty! whence these beings shine,
All wisdom's lost in comprehending thine.

241

IN AUTUMN

The fields all cleared, the labouring mice
To sheltering hedge and wood patrol,
Where hips and haws for food suffice
That chumbled lie about the hole.

242

And squirrel, bobbing from the eye,
Is busy now about its hoard,
And in old nest of crow and pie
Its winter store is oft explored.

The leaves now leave the willows grey
And down the brook they wind:
So hopes and pleasures whirl away
And vanish from the mind.

248

COUNTRY SWEETHEARTS

‘I'll ne'er walk at even grim
When the night is glimpt wi' grey;
When the light is waxing dim;
Deeds are done at closing day.
Ever sin' by blossom'd bean
While the gnats were dancing by,
Ye did on my bosom lean,
Aye the tear's bin in my eye.

‘Ever sin’ ye pass'd the morn
When ye little dreamt a spy,
Meeting Dolly 'hind the thorn,
Aye the tear's bin in my eye.
Ever sin' ye vow'd to wed,
And I prov'd wi' heavy sigh
Ye'd the vow to many made,
Aye the tear's bin in my eye.’

249

‘Sweet the tear shines on thee, love,
Which I soon will wash away;
Tenderness has won me, love,
Fear thou not the even grey.
Sin' we sat by beans in bloom,
I have bin the ring to buy;
Think no harm from that shall come,
Wipe the tear from either eye.’

261

MORNING

Oh, now the crimson east, its fire-streak burning,
Tempts me to wander 'neath the blushing morn,
Winding the zig-zag lane, turning and turning,
As winds the crooked fence's wilder'd thorn.
Where is the eye can gaze upon the blushes,
Unmov'd, with which yon cloudless heaven flushes?
I cannot pass the very bramble, weeping
'Neath dewy tear-drops that its spears surround,
Like harlot's mockery on the wan cheek creeping,
Gilding the poison that is meant to wound—
I cannot pass the bent, ere gales have shaken
Its transient crowning off, each point adorning—
But all the feelings of my soul awaken,
To own the witcheries of most lovely morning.

276

A LAIR AT NOON

The hawthorn gently stopt the sun, beneath,
The ash above its quiv'ring shadows spread,
And downy bents, that to the air did wreathe,
Bow'd 'neath my pressure in an easy bed;
The water whirled round each stunted nook,
And sweet the splashings on the ear did swim
Of fly-bit cattle gulshing in the brook,
Nibbling the grasses on the fountain's brim:
The little minnows, driv'n from their retreat,
Still sought the shelving bank to shun the heat,
I fain had slept, but flies would buzz around;
I fain had looked calmly on the scene,
But the sweet snug retreat my search had found
Waken'd the muse to sing the woody screen.

283

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN KEATS

The world, its hopes, and fears, have pass'd away;
No more its trifling thou shalt feel or see;
Thy hopes are ripening in a brighter day,
While these left buds thy monument shall be.
When Rancour's aims have past in naught away,
Enlarging specks discern'd in more than thee,
And beauties 'minishing which few display—
When these are past, true child of Poesy,
Thou shalt survive. Ah, while a being dwells,
With soul, in nature's joys, to warm like thine,
With eye to view her fascinating spells,
And dream entranced o'er each form divine,
Thy worth, Enthusiast, shall be cherish'd here,
Thy name with him shall linger, and be dear.

298

FEBRUARY

The snow has left the cottage top;
The thatch-moss grows in brighter green;
And eaves in quick succession drop,
Where grinning icicles have been,
Pit-patting with a pleasant noise
In tubs set by the cottage-door;
While ducks and geese, with happy joys,
Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o'er.

299

The sun peeps through the window-pane;
Which children mark with laughing eye,
And in the wet street steal again
To tell each other spring is nigh:
Then, as young hope the past recalls,
In playing groups they often draw,
To build beside the sunny walls
Their spring-time huts of sticks or straw.

And oft in pleasure's dreams they hie
Round homesteads by the village side,
Scratching the hedgerow mosses by,
Where painted pooty shells abide,
Mistaking oft the ivy spray
For leaves that come with budding spring,
And wond'ring, in their search for play,
Why birds delay to build and sing.

The milkmaid singing leaves her bed,
As glad as happy thoughts can be,
While magpies chatter o'er her head
As jocund in the change as she:
Her cows around the closes stray,
Nor ling'ring wait the foddering-boy,
Tossing the molehills in their play,
And staring round with frolic joy.

The shepherd now is often seen
Near warm banks o'er his hook to bend,
Or o'er a gate or stile to lean,
Chattering to a passing friend:
Ploughmen go whistling to their toils,
And yoke again the rested plough;
And, mingling o'er the mellow soils,
Boys shout, and whips are noising now.

The barking dogs, by lane and wood,
Drive sheep afield from foddering ground;
And Echo, in her summer mood,
Briskly mocks the cheering sound.

300

The flocks, as from a prison broke,
Shake their wet fleeces in the sun,
While, following fast, a misty smoke
Reeks from the moist grass as they run.

No more behind his master's heels
The dog creeps on his winter-pace;
But cocks his tail, and o'er the fields
Runs many a wild and random chase,
Following, in spite of chiding calls,
The startled cat with harmless glee,
Scaring her up the weed-green walls,
Or mossy mottled apple-tree.

As crows from morning perches fly,
He barks and follows them in vain;
E'en larks will catch his nimble eye,
And off he starts and barks again,
With breathless haste and blinded guess,
Oft following where the hare hath gone,
Forgetting, in his joy's excess,
His frolic puppy-days are done.

The hedgehog, from his hollow root,
Sees the wood-moss clear of snow,
And hunts the hedge for fallen fruit—
Crab, hip, and winter-bitten sloe;
But often check'd by sudden fears,
As shepherd-dog his haunt espies,
He rolls up in a ball of spears,
And all his barking rage defies.

The gladden'd swine bolt from the sty,
And round the yard in freedom run,
Or stretching in their slumbers lie
Beside the cottage in the sun.
The young horse whinnies to his mate,
And, sickening from the thresher's door,
Rubs at the straw-yard's banded gate,
Longing for freedom on the moor.

301

The small birds think their wants are o'er,
To see the snow-hills fret again,
And, from the barn's chaff-litter'd door,
Betake them to the greening plain.
The woodman's robin startles coy,
Nor longer to his elbow comes,
To peck, with hunger's eager joy,
'Mong mossy stulps the litter'd crumbs.

'Neath hedge and walls that screen the wind,
The gnats for play will flock together;
And e'en poor flies some hope will find
To venture in the mocking weather;
From out their hiding-holes again,
With feeble pace, they often creep
Along the sun-warm'd window-pane,
Like dreaming things that walk in sleep.

The mavis thrush with wild delight,
Upon the orchard's dripping tree,
Mutters, to see the day so bright,
Fragments of young Hope's poesy:
And oft dame stops her buzzing wheel
To hear the robin's note once more,
Who tootles while he pecks his meal
From sweetbrier hips beside the door.

The sunbeams on the hedges lie,
The south wind murmurs summer-soft;
The maids hang out white clothes to dry
Around the elder-skirted croft:
A calm of pleasure listens round,
And almost whispers winter by;
While Fancy dreams of summer's sound,
And quiet rapture fills the eye.

Thus Nature of the spring will dream
While south winds thaw; but soon again
Frost breathes upon the stiff'ning stream,
And numbs it into ice: the plain

302

Soon wears its mourning garb of white;
And icicles, that fret at noon,
Will eke their icy tails at night
Beneath the chilly stars and moon.

Nature soon sickens of her joys,
And all is sad and dumb again.
Save merry shouts of sliding boys
About the frozen furrow'd plain
The foddering-boy forgets his song,
And silent goes with folded arms;
And croodling shepherds bend along,
Crouching to the whizzing storms.

307

APRIL

Now infant April joins the spring,
And views the watery sky,
As youngling linnet tries its wing,
And fears at first to fly;
With timid step she ventures on,
And hardly dares to smile,
Till blossoms open one by one,
And sunny hours beguile.

308

But finer days are coming yet,
With scenes more sweet to charm,
And suns arrive that rise and set
Bright strangers to a storm:
Then, as the birds with louder song
Each morning's glory cheer,
With bolder step she speeds along,
And loses all her fear.

In wanton gambols, like a child,
She tends her early toils,
And seeks the buds along the wild,
That blossoms while she smiles;
Or, laughing on, with naught to chide,
She races with the Hours,
Or sports by Nature's lovely side,
And fills her lap with flowers.

The shepherd on his pasture walks
The first fair cowslip finds,
Whose tufted flowers, on slender stalks,
Keep nodding to the winds.
And though the thorns withhold the may,
Their shades the violets bring,
Which children stoop for in their play
As tokens of the spring.

Those joys which childhood calls its own,
Would they were kin to men!
Those treasures to the world unknown,
When known, are wither'd then!
But hovering round our growing years,
To gild Care's sable shroud,
Their spirit through the gloom appears
As suns behind a cloud.

Since thou didst meet my infant eyes,
As through the fields I flew,
Whose distance, where they meet the skies,
Was all the world I knew;

309

That warmth of fancy's wildest hours,
Which fill'd all things with life,
Which heard a voice in trees and flowers,
Has swoon'd in reason's strife.

Sweet month! thy pleasures bid thee be
The fairest child of spring;
And every hour, that comes with thee,
Comes some new joy to bring:
The trees still deepen in their bloom,
Grass greens the meadow-lands,
And flowers with every morning come,
As dropt by fairy hands.

The field and garden's lovely hours
Begin and end with thee;
For what's so sweet, as peeping flowers
And bursting buds to see,
What time the dew's unsullied drops,
In burnish'd gold, distil
On crocus flowers' unclosing tops,
And drooping daffodil?

To see thee come, all hearts rejoice;
And, warm with feelings strong,
With thee all Nature finds a voice,
And hums a waking song.
The lover views thy welcome hours,
And thinks of summer come,
And takes the maid the early flowers,
To tempt her steps from home.

Along each hedge and sprouting bush
The singing birds are blest,
And linnet green and speckled thrush
Prepare their mossy nest;
On the warm bed thy plains supply,
The young lambs find repose,
And mid thy green hills basking lie
Like spots of ling'ring snows.

310

Thy open'd leaves and ripen'd buds
The cuckoo makes his choice,
And shepherds in thy greening woods
First hear his cheering voice:
And to thy ripen'd blooming bowers
The nightingale belongs,
And, singing to thy parting hours,
Keeps night awake with songs.

With thee the swallow dares to come,
And primes his sooty wing;
And, urged to seek his yearly home,
Thy suns the martin bring.
O lovely month! be leisure mine
Thy yearly mate to be;
Though May-day scenes may brighter shine,
Their birth belongs to thee.

I waked me with thy rising sun,
And thy first glories viewed,
And, as thy welcome hours begun,
Their sunny steps pursued.
And now thy sun is on thee set,
Like to a lovely eve,
I view thy parting with regret,
And linger loath to leave.

Though at her birth the northern gale
Come with its withering sigh,
And hopeful blossoms, turning pale,
Upon her bosom die,
Ere April seeks another place,
And ends her reign in this,
She leaves us with as fair a face
As e'er gave birth to bliss.

335

NOVEMBER

The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon;
And, if the sun looks through, 'tis with a face
Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon,
When done the journey of her nightly race,
Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place.
For days the shepherds in the fields may be,
Nor mark a patch of sky—blindfold they trace
The plains, that seem without a bush or tree,
Whistling aloud by guess to flocks they cannot see.

336

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose,
Crouching and sleeping 'neath its grassy lair,
And scarcely startles, tho' the shepherd goes
Close by its home, and dogs are barking there;
The wild colt only turns around to stare
At passer by, then knaps his hide again;
And moody crows beside the road, forbear
To fly, tho' pelted by the passing swain;
Thus day seems turn'd to night, and tries to wake in vain.

The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon,
And flaps her grey wings in the doubting light;
The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon,
And small birds chirp and startle with affright;
Much doth it scare the superstitious wight,
Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay;
While cow-boys think the day a dream of night,
And oft grow fearful on their lonely way,
Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.

Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings
Its murky prison round—then winds wake loud;
With sudden stir the startled forest sings
Winter's returning song—cloud races cloud,
And the horizon throws away its shroud,
Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye;
Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd,
And o'er the sameness of the purple sky
Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.

At length it comes among the forest oaks,
With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high;
The scared, hoarse raven on its cradle croaks,
And stockdove-flocks in hurried terrors fly,
While the blue hawk hangs o'er them in the sky.
The hedger hastens from the storm begun,
To seek a shelter that may keep him dry;
And foresters, low bent the wind to shun,
Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher's muttering gun.

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The ploughman hears its humming rage begin,
And hies for shelter from his naked toil;
Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin,
He bends and scampers o'er the elting soil,
While clouds above him in wild fury boil,
And winds drive heavily the beating rain;
He turns his back to catch his breath awhile,
Then ekes his speed and faces it again,
To seek the shepherd's hut beside the rushy plain.

The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheat
The melancholy crow, in hurry weaves,
Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat
Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves,
Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves.
There he doth dithering sit, and entertain
His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves;
Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en,
And wishing in his heart 'twas summer-time again.

Thus wears the month along, in chequer'd moods,
Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud and calms;
One hour dies silent o'er the sleepy woods,
The next wakes loud with unexpected storms;
A dreary nakedness the field deforms—
Yet many a rural sound and rural sight
Lives in the village still about the farms,
Where toil's rude uproar hums from morn till night,
Noises in which the ears of Industry delight.

At length the stir of rural labour's still,
And Industry her care awhile forgoes;
When Winter comes in earnest to fulfil
His yearly task, at bleak November's close,
And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows;
When frost locks up the stream in chill delay,
And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes
For little birds—then Toil hath time for play,
And naught but threshers' flails awake the dreary day.

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DECEMBER

Glad Christmas comes, and every hearth
Makes room to give him welcome now,
E'en want will dry its tears in mirth,
And crown him with a holly bough;
Though tramping 'neath a winter sky,
O'er snowy paths and rimy stiles,
The housewife sets her spinning by
To bid him welcome with her smiles.

Each house is swept the day before,
And windows stuck with evergreens,
The snow is besom'd from the door,
And comfort crowns the cottage scenes.
Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks,
And yew and box, with berries small,
These deck the unused candlesticks,
And pictures hanging by the wall.

Neighbours resume their annual cheer,
Wishing, with smiles and spirits high,
Glad Christmas and a happy year
To every morning passer-by;
Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go,
Accompanied with favour'd swain;
And children pace the crumping snow,
To taste their granny's cake again.

The shepherd, now no more afraid,
Since custom doth the chance bestow,
Starts up to kiss the giggling maid
Beneath the branch of misletoe
That 'neath each cottage beam is seen,
With pearl-like berries shining gay;
The shadow still of what hath been,
Which fashion yearly fades away.

The singing waits, a merry throng,
At early morn, with simple skill,
Yet imitate the angels' song,
And chant their Christmas ditty still;

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And, mid the storm that dies and swells
By fits, in hummings softly steals
The music of the village bells,
Ringing round their merry peals.

When this is past, a merry crew,
Bedeck'd in masks and ribbons gay,
The ‘Morris-dance,’ their sports renew,
And act their winter evening play.
The clown turn'd king, for penny-praise,
Storms with the actor's strut and swell;
And Harlequin, a laugh to raise,
Wears his hunchback and tinkling bell.

And oft for pence and spicy ale,
With winter nosegays pinn'd before,
The wassail-singer tells her tale,
And drawls her Christmas carols o'er.
While prentice boy, with ruddy face,
And rime-bepowder'd, dancing locks,
From door to door with happy pace,
Runs round to claim his ‘Christmas box.’

The block upon the fire is put,
To sanction custom's old desires;
And many a faggot's bands are cut,
For the old farmers' Christmas fires;
Where loud-tongued Gladness joins the throng,
And Winter meets the warmth of May,
Till feeling soon the heat too strong,
He rubs his shins, and draws away.

While snows the window-panes bedim,
The fire curls up a sunny charm,
Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim,
The flowering ale is set to warm;
Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,
Sits there, its pleasures to impart,
And children, 'tween their parents' knees,
Sing scraps of carols o'er by heart.

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And some, to view the winter weathers,
Climb up the window-seat with glee,
Likening the snow to falling feathers,
In fancy's infant ecstasy;
Laughing, with superstitious love,
O'er visions wild that youth supplies,
Of people pulling geese above,
And keeping Christmas in the skies.

As tho' the homestead trees were drest,
In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves,
As tho' the sun-dried martin's nest,
Instead of ickles, hung the eaves,
The children hail the happy day—
As if the snow were April's grass,
And pleas'd, as 'neath the warmth of May,
Sport o'er the water froze to glass.

Thou day of happy sound and mirth,
That long with childish memory stays,
How blest around the cottage hearth
I met thee in my younger days!
Harping, with rapture's dreaming joys,
On presents which thy coming found,
The welcome sight of little toys,
The Christmas gift of cousins round:

The wooden horse with arching head,
Drawn upon wheels around the room,
The gilded coach of gingerbread,
And many-colour'd sugar-plum,
Gilt-cover'd books for pictures sought,
Or stories childhood loves to tell,
With many an urgent promise bought,
To get to-morrow's lesson well;

And many a thing, a minute's sport,
Left broken on the sanded floor,
When we would leave our play, and court
Our parents' promises for more.

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Tho' manhood bids such raptures die,
And throws such toys aside as vain,
Yet memory loves to turn her eye,
And count past pleasures o'er again.

Around the glowing hearth at night,
The harmless laugh and winter tale
Go round, while parting friends delight
To toast each other o'er their ale;
The cotter oft with quiet zeal
Will musing o'er his Bible lean;
While in the dark the lovers steal
To kiss and toy behind the screen.

Old customs! Oh! I love the sound,
However simple they may be:
Whate'er with time hath sanction found,
Is welcome and is dear to me.
Pride grows above simplicity,
And spurns them from her haughty mind,
And soon the poet's song will be
The only refuge they can find.

WANDERINGS IN JUNE

The season now is all delight,
Sweet smile the passing hours,
And Summer's pleasures, at their height,
Are sweet as are her flowers;
The purple morning waken'd soon,
The midday's gleaming din,
Grey evening with her silver moon,
Are sweet to mingle in.

While waking doves betake to flight
From off each roosting bough,
While Nature's locks are wet with night,
How sweet to wander now!

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Fast fade the vapours cool and grey,
The red sun waxes strong,
And streaks on labour's early way
His shadows lank and long.

Serenely sweet the Morning comes
O'er the horizon's sweep,
And calmly breaks the wakening hums
Of Nature's nightly sleep.
What rapture swells with every sound
Of Morning's maiden hours!
What healthful feelings breathe around!
What freshness opes the flowers!

Each tree and flower, in every hue
And varied green, are spread,
As fair and frail as drops the dew
From off each blooming head;
Like to that beauty which beguiles
The eyes of wondering men,
Led blushing to perfection's smiles
And left to wither then.

How strange a scene has come to pass
Since Summer 'gan its reign!
Spring flowers are buried in the grass,
To sleep till spring again:
Her dew-drops Evening still receives
To gild the morning hours;
But dew-drops fall on open'd leaves
And moisten stranger-flowers.

The artless daisies' smiling face
My wanderings find no more;
The kingcups that supplied their place,
Their golden race is o'er;
And clover bottles' ruddy bloom,
That blossom where these fell,
Ere autumn's fading mornings come
Shall meet their grave as well.

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Life's every beauty fades away,
And short its worldly race;
Change leads us round its varied day,
And strangers take our place:
On summers past, how many eyes
Have waken'd into bliss,
That death's eclipsing hand denies
To view the charms of this!

The open flower, the loaded bough,
The fields of spindling grain,
Were blooming then the same as now,
And so will bloom again:
When with the past my being dies,
Still summer suns shall shine,
And other eyes shall see them rise
When death has darkened mine.

Reflection, with thy mortal shrouds
When thou dost interfere,
Though all is gay, what gloomy clouds
Thy musings shadow here!
To think of summers yet to come
That I am not to see,
To think a weed is yet to bloom
From dust that I shall be!

The misty clouds of purple hue
Are fading from the eye,
And ruddy streaks, which morning drew,
Have left a dappled sky;
The sun has call'd the bees abroad,
Wet with the early hour,
By toiling for the honey'd load
Ere dews forsake the flower.

O'er yonder hill, a dusty rout
Wakes solitude from sleep;
Shepherds have wattled pens about,
To shear their bleating sheep;

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Less pleasing is the public way,
Traced with awaken'd toil;
And sweet are woods shut out from day,
Where sunbeams never smile.

The woodbines, fresh with morning hours,
Are what I love to see;
The ivy-spreading darksome bowers
Is where I love to be:
Left there, as when a boy, to lie
And talk to flower and tree,
And fancy, in my ecstasy,
Their silence answers me.

While some desire tumultuous joys,
And shun what nature wears,
Give me the choice which they despise,
And I'll not sigh for theirs:
The shady wild, the summer dreams
Enjoying there at will,
The whispering voice of woods and streams
That breathe of Eden still.

How sweet the fanning breeze is felt,
Breathed through the dancing boughs!
How sweet the rural noises melt
From distant sheep and cows!
The lovely green of wood and hill,
The hummings in the air,
Serenely in my breast instil
The rapture reigning there.

To me how sweet the whispering winds,
The woods again how sweet,
To find the peace which freedom finds,
And from the world retreat;
To stretch beneath a spreading tree,
That far its shadow shoots,
While by its side the water free
Curls through its twisted roots.

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Such silence oft be mine to meet
In leisure's musing hours;
Oft be a fountain's brink my seat—
My partners, birds and flowers:
No tumult here creates alarm,
No pains our follies find;
Peace visits us in every calm,
Health breathes in every wind.

Now cool the wood my wanderings shrouds,
'Neath arbours Nature weaves,
Shut up from viewing fields and clouds,
And buried deep in leaves;
The sounds without amuse me still,
Mixt with the sounds within—
The scythe with sharpening tinkles shrill,
The cuckoo's soothing din.

The eye, no longer left to range,
Is pent in narrowest bound,
Yet Nature's works, unnamed and strange,
My every step surround;
Things small as dust, of every dye,
That scarce the sight perceives,
Some clad with wings fly droning by,
Some climb the grass and leaves.

And flowers these darksome woodlands rear,
Whose shades they yearly claim,
That Nature's wond'rous mystery wear,
And bloom without a name:
What different shapes in leaves are seen
That o'er my head embower,
Clad in as many shades of green
As colours in the flower!

My path now gleams with fairer light,
The side approaches near,
A heath now bolts upon the sight,
And rabbit-tracks appear:

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I love the heath, though mid the brakes
Fear shudders, trampling through,
Oft check'd at things she fancies snakes
Quick nestling from the view.

Yet where the ground is nibbled bare
By rabbits and by sheep,
I often fearless loiter there,
And think myself to sleep.
Dear are the scenes which Nature loves,
Where she untamed retires,
Far from the stretch of planted groves
Which polish'd taste admires.

Here oft, though grass and moss are seen
Tann'd brown for want of showers,
Still keeps the ling its darksome green,
Thick set with little flowers;
And yonder, mingling o'er the heath,
The furze delights to dwell,
Whose blossoms steal the summer's breath,
And shed a sultry smell.

Here threat'ning ploughs have tried in vain
To till the sandy soil;
Yon slope, already sown with grain,
Shows Nature mocks the toil;
The wild weeds choke the straggling ears,
And motley gardens spread;
The blue-cap there in bloom appears,
And poppies, lively red.

But now my footsteps sidle round
The gently sloping hill,
Now falter over marshy ground,
Yet Nature charms me still:
Here moss, and grass, and flowers appear
Of different forms and hues;
And insects too inhabit here,
Which still my wonder views.

347

Here horsetail round the water's edge
In bushy tufts is spread,
With rush, and cutting leaves of sedge
That children learn to dread;
Its leaves, like razors, mingling there
Oft make the youngster turn,
Leaving his rushes in despair,
A wounded hand to mourn.

What wonders strike my idle gaze,
As near the pond I stand!
What life its stagnant depth displays,
As varied as the land:
All forms and sizes swimming there,
Some, sheath'd in silvery den,
Oft siling up as if for air,
Then nimbling down agen.

Now rising ground permits the plain
To change the restless view,
The pathways leading down the lane
My pleasures still renew.
The osier's slender shade is by,
And bushes thickly spread;
Again the ground is firm and dry,
Nor trembles 'neath the tread.

On this side, ash or oak embowers;
There, hawthorns humbler grow,
With goatsbeard wreath, and woodbine flowers,
That shade a brook below,
Which feebly purls its rippling moans
With summer draining dry,
Till struttles, as I step the stones,
Can scarcely struggle by.

Now soon shall end these musing dreams
In solitude's retreat;
The eye that dwelt on woods and streams
The village soon shall meet:

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Nigh on the sight the steeple towers;
The clock, with mellow hum,
Counts out the day's declining hours,
And calls my ramblings home.

I love to visit Spring's young blooms
When wet with April showers;
Nor feel less joy, when Summer comes,
To trace her darker bowers;
I love to meet the Autumn winds
Till they have mourn'd their last;
Nor less delight my journey finds
In Winter's howling blast.

THE APPROACH OF SPRING

Now once again, thou lovely Spring,
Thy sight the day beguiles;
For fresher greens the fairy ring,
The daisy brighter smiles:
The winds, that late with chiding voice
Would fain thy stay prolong,
Relent, while little birds rejoice,
And mingle into song.

Undaunted maiden, thou shalt find
Thy home in gleaming woods,
Thy mantle in the southern wind,
Thy wreath in swelling buds:
And may thy mantle wrap thee round,
And hopes still warm and thrive,
And dews with every morn be found
To keep thy wreath alive.

May coming suns, that tempt thy flowers,
Smile on as they begin;
And gentle be succeeding hours
As those that bring thee in:

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Full lovely are thy dappled skies,
Pearl'd round with promised showers,
And sweet thy blossoms round thee rise
To meet the sunny hours.

The primrose bud, thy early pledge,
Sprouts 'neath each woodland tree,
And violets under every hedge
Prepare a seat for thee:
As maids just meeting woman's bloom
Feel love's delicious strife,
So Nature warms to find thee come,
And kindles into life.

Through hedgerow leaves, in drifted heaps
Left by the stormy blast,
The little hopeful blossom peeps,
And tells of winter past;
A few leaves flutter from the woods,
That hung the season through,
Leaving their place for swelling buds
To spread their leaves anew.

'Mong wither'd grass upon the plain,
That lent the blast a voice,
The tender green appears again,
And creeping things rejoice;
Each warm bank shines with early flowers,
Where oft a lonely bee
Drones, venturing on in sunny hours,
Its humming song to thee.

The birds are busy on the wing,
The fish play in the stream;
And many a hasty curdled ring
Crimps round the leaping bream;
The buds unfold to leaves apace,
Along the hedgerow bowers,
And many a child with rosy face
Is seeking after flowers.

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The soft wind fans the violet blue,
Its opening sweets to share,
And infant breezes, waked anew,
Play in the maidens' hair—
Maidens that freshen with thy flowers,
To charm the gentle swain,
And dally, in their milking hours,
With lovers' vows again.

Bright dews illume the grassy plain,
Sweet messengers of morn,
And drops hang glistening after rain
Like gems on every thorn;
What though the grass is moist and rank
Where dews fall from the tree,
The creeping sun smiles on the bank
And warms a seat for thee.

The eager morning earlier wakes
To glad thy fond desires,
And oft its rosy bed forsakes
Ere night's pale moon retires;
Sweet shalt thou feel the morning sun
To warm thy dewy breast,
And chase the chill mist's purple dun
That lingers in the west.

Her dresses Nature gladly trims,
To hail thee as her queen,
And soon shall fold thy lovely limbs
In modest garb of green:
Each day shall like a lover come
Some gifts with thee to share,
And swarms of flowers shall quickly bloom
To dress thy golden hair.

All life and beauty warm and smile
Thy lovely face to see,
And many a hopeful hour beguile
In seeking joys with thee:

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The sweetest hours that ever come
Are those which thou dost bring,
And sure the fairest flowers that bloom
Are partners of the Spring.

I've met the Winter's biting breath
In Nature's wild retreat,
When Silence listens as in death,
And thought its wildness sweet;
And I have loved the Winter's calm
When frost has left the plain,
When suns that morning waken'd warm
Left eve to freeze again.

I've heard in Autumn's early reign
Her first, her gentlest song;
I've mark'd her change o'er wood and plain,
And wish'd her reign were long;
Till winds, like armies, gather'd round,
And stripp'd her colour'd woods,
And storms urged on, with thunder-sound,
Their desolating floods.

And Summer's endless stretch of green,
Spread over plain and tree,
Sweet solace to my eyes has been,
As it to all must be;
Long I have stood his burning heat,
And breathed the sultry day,
And walk'd and toil'd with weary feet,
Nor wish'd his pride away.

But oft I've watch'd the greening buds
Brush'd by the linnet's wing,
When, like a child, the gladden'd woods
First lisp the voice of Spring;
When flowers, like dreams, peep every day,
Reminding what they bring,
I've watch'd them, and am warn'd to pay
A preference to Spring.

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TO THE COWSLIP

Once more, thou flower of childish fame,
Thou meet'st the April wind;
The selfsame flower, the very same
As those I used to find.
Thy peeps, tipt round with ruddy streak,
Again attract mine eye,
As they were those I used to seek
Full twenty summers by.

But I'm no more akin to thee,
A partner of the spring;
For time has had a hand with me,
And left an alter'd thing:
A thing that's lost thy golden hours,
And all I witness'd then,
Mix'd in a desert, far from flowers,
Among the ways of men.

Thy blooming pleasures, smiling, gay,
The seasons still renew;
But mine were doom'd a stinted stay,
Ah, they were short and few!
The every hour that hurried by,
To eke the passing day,
Lent restless pleasures wings to fly
Till all were flown away.

Blest flower! with spring thy joy's begun,
And no false hopes are thine;
One constant cheer of shower and sun
Makes all thy stay divine.
But my May-morning quickly fled,
And dull its noon came on—
And happiness is past and dead
Ere half that noon is gone.

Ah! smile and bloom, thou lovely thing!
Though May's sweet days are few,

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Still coming years thy flowers shall bring,
And bid them bloom anew.
Man's Life, that bears no kin to them,
Past pleasures well may mourn:
No bud clings to its withering stem—
No hope for Spring's return.

THE LAST OF AUTUMN

Come, bleak November, in thy wildness come:
Thy mornings clothed in rime, thy evenings chill—
E'en these have power to tempt me from my home,
E'en these have beauty to delight me still.
Though Nature lingers in her mourning weeds,
And wails the dying year in gusty blast,
Still added beauty to the last proceeds,
And wildness triumphs when her bloom is past.

Though long grass all the day is drench'd in dew,
And splashy pathways lead me o'er the greens,
Though naked fields hang lonely on the view,
Long lost to harvest and its busy scenes,
Yet in the distance shines the painted bough,
Leaves changed to every colour ere they die,
And through the valley rivers widen now,
Once little brooks which summer dribbled dry.

Here ragged boys, pleased with the change of scene,
Try new inventions of their infant skill,
Leaving their leap-frog races on the green,
To watch the waves and build the dashing mill;
Or where the molehill island lifts its head,
There form the castle with its guarding moat,
And o'er the jumping waves, with little dread,
Turn nutshell boats and paper ships afloat.

On bridge-wall sitting, by such scenes as these,
I meet with pleasures that can please for hours;
Mix'd in the uproar of those little seas,
That roll their floods where summer left her flowers.

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A wild confusion hangs upon the ear,
And something half romantic meets the view;
Arches half fill'd with wither'd leaves appear,
Where white foam stills the billow boiling through.

Those yellow leaves that litter on the grass,
'Mong dry brown stalks that lately blossom'd there,
Instil a mournful pleasure as they pass:
For melancholy has its joy to spare—
A joy that dwells in autumn's lonely walks,
And whispers, like a vision, what shall be,
How flowers shall blossom on those wither'd stalks,
And green leaves clothe each nearly naked tree.

Oft in the woods I hear the thundering gun;
And, through the brambles as I cautious creep,
A bustling hare, the threatening sound to shun,
Oft skips the pathway in a fearful leap;
And spangled pheasant, scared from stumpy bush,
Oft blunders rustling through the yellow boughs;
While farther off, from beds of reed and rush,
The startled woodcock leaves its silent sloughs.

Here Echo oft her autumn ditty sings,
Mocking the cracking whip and yelping hounds,
While through the woods the wild disorder rings,
Chorus'd with hunter's horns of mellower sounds,
And bawling halloos of the sporting train,
Who dash through woodland, in their gay parade,
And leap the ditch, and sweep the level plain,
Fresh wildness adding to the chequer'd shade.

The timid sheep that huddled from the wind
'Neath the broad oaks, beside the spinney rails,
Half mad with fear such hue and cry to find,
In rattling motion chase adown the vales:
And, falsely startled by unheeding dogs,
From where the acorns patter bright and brown,
Through the thorn hedges burst the random hogs,
Who grunt and scamper till they reach the town.

355

The playing boys, to eke the rude uproar,
Turn hunters some, some mock the yelping hounds,
Whose real barkings urge their noise the more,
And keck-made bugles spout their twanging sounds,
But soon foot-foundered, youngster hunters lag,
By mounted sportsmen distanced far away,
Yet still they chase the fancied fox or stag,
And feel as happy in the cheat as they.

Ah! sweet is boyish joy in memory's eye;
An artless tale with no attending pains,
Save the sad thought—to feel such pleasures fly;
And the vain hope—to wish them back again.
How many autumns brought the woods their guest,
With mimic horns, in hunting sports to join!
How many autumns since that time have past,
Stretching the distance when such joys were mine!

Still joys are mine, uncertain paths to take
Through the wild woods, to hide and walk at will,
Rustling aside the brown and wither'd brake,
To rest on roots, and think, and linger still.
Though trumpet-kecks are passed unheeded by,
Whose hollow stalks inspired such eager joy,
Still other trifles other sports supply,
Which manhood seeks as eager as the boy.

To meanest trifles pleasure's hold will cling;
'Tis even felt to view that greening moss;
These simple wrecks of summer and of spring—
Like other children I regret their loss.
But there is something in that wind that mourns,
And those black clouds that hide the heav'n as well,
And in that sun, that gilds and glooms by turns,
Which leaves a pleasure that's unspeakable.

Though nuts have long been glean'd by many crews
Of shatter'd poor, who daily rambled there,
And squirrels claim'd the remnant as their dues,
Still to the woods the hungry boys repair,

356

Brushing the long dead grass with anxious feet,
While round their heads the stirr'd leaves patter down,
To seek the bramble's jet-fruit, lushy sweet,
Or climbing service-berries ripe and brown.

Amidst the wreck of perishable leaves,
How fresh and fine appears the evergreen!
How box, or holly, garden-walks relieves!
How bright the ivy round the oak is seen!
And on old thorns the long-leaved mistletoe
Regains fresh beauties as its parent dies;
While dark spurge-laurel, on the banks below,
In stubborn bloom the autumn blight defies.

But garden shades have long been doom'd to fall,
Where naked fruit-trees drop their constant showers:
All blooms are fled, save on the wet moss'd wall
As yet may peep some faded gilliflowers.
The mist and smoke, in shadows mingling deep,
Around each cottage hover all the day;
Through the dim panes the prison'd children peep,
And look in vain for summer and for play.

Now this heath's eminence extends the views,
How sweet yon hill-tops on the distance rise,
Crowned with stretched woods of many-coloured hues,
And wildly hung with autumn's changing skies,
Where dark black clouds come slowly rolling on,
By others close pursued of lighter stain,
Dull shadows glooming dreary: and anon
Blue skies and sunlight brighten up again.

Light streaks yon sandy road far o'er the grounds,
Lost in the vales and peeping with the hills,
While in the mist the distance daily bounds,
Spires dimly rise and turning sails of mills.
And near at hand, aside yon spreading oak,
Midst furze and ling and tufts of withered grass
The gipsy's dwelling curls its feeble smoke,
Where its scant bounty nips the weary ass.

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O'er yon brown stubble-field which nature shuns,
What gaudy views the year did once command
When yellow carlock glittered in the sun
And crimson cornflowers blazed about the land
For furlongs round! when tufty blades of wheat
Hid the coy wanderings of the timid hare,
That now for furlongs vainly seeks a seat
And flies to woods to skulk from danger there.

And in the lane, along its hedgerow bank,
Where naught shines now but littered yellow leaves,
And withered weeds, which summer spindled rank—
Save round old stulps, where ivy wildly weaves—
There once the spring one's pleasant walks beguiled
With swarms of violet flowers both white and blue;
There mid broad leaves the primrose meekly smiled,
And cowslip roots, less plenteous, often grew.

Dull seems the town which one's return receives,
Where naught is heard around but twanking flails,
Save chirping sparrows on our cottage eaves
Or twittering robins on some garden pales.
There's nothing there one's bounded views can meet
But gabbling geese and battling swine's uproar,
Where stepping-stones along the dirty street
Are laid as bridges to each cottage door.

368

THE LAST OF SUMMER

A beauty on the scene attends
Ere autumn comes and summer ends,
When summer's glory first we see
As stained with its mortality.
Each morn wakes wan, its sunlight wanes
On yellowing leaves and fading plains;
Green fields no more the summer views,
All sickened into ripened hues
Of brown and grey and darksome glooms
That mark the path where autumn comes;
And in each woodland's buried way
The dewdrop lives for half the day.
Dank mists oft creep 'twixt earth and sky,
And dreaming dim the morning's eye,
And dullness wears along the while
As if the sun was loath to smile.
Yet at midday his feebled powers
Will brighten up in sultry hours,
And sweating toil, that often stops
To wipe aside the falling drops,
Pierced with his downward daily ray,
Wishes the lagging hours away.
By swallows we may plain perceive
When summer's on the point to leave,
Who skim the pond and rippling spring
Where oft they dipt their sutty wing,
And green lanes where from morn till night
They joyed to wheel their curling flight;
Now perched on cottage tops to rest,
They twit and prime each dingy breast,
Or flock together in the sky

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As if to learn their young to fly,
Preparing each unpractised wing
For flight, to seek another spring.
Each orchard now is smiling gay,
Glittering in the morning ray:
Rich clustering plums of varied hue,
Of freckled red and misty blue,
And sun-tanned pears with ruddy streak,
Brown as was summer's lusty cheek,
And blushing apples round and red,
Whose loaded branches pat the head
Of longing maid who hither goes
To hang on lines the bleaching clothes.
And boys will often slive from play
And in the orchard find a way,
Hurling up stones with jerking spring,
Or sticks with many a sturdy swing,
Till on the foot-marked, battered ground
The pears and apples patter round.
And truant schoolboy, stealing play,
Oft sneaks along some secret way;
Though ne'er a nest his eye perceives,
Though pooties hide in falling leaves,
Yet are there hips and haws to seek,
And sun-tanned crabs with ruddy cheek,
And with harsh grin and wrinkled frown
He chews the unpleasant prizes down;
And arching o'er the woodland way,
Blackberries tempt his thoughts astray.
Sloes, powdered o'er with misty down,
From hedges too he scrambles down,
By shepherds deemed a pleasant treat,
Though not till winter makes them sweet;
When frost-nipped, they awake desire,
And anxious to his cottage fire
On the clear blaze each branch he throws,
And roasts the hissing, spluttering sloes.
Now mushrooms with the morning light
Above the wet grass glisten white;

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Nor are the summer's farewell hours
Always left without their flowers;
The marjoram oft in shady lane
Night's plenteous dews revive again;
Long scorched in summer's earlier hours,
It now will freshen into flowers.
On hills and roads and everywhere,
The ragwort blossoms half the year,
And thistles on each rushy balk
Are constant blushing in our walk,
That tower in scornful majesty
O'er oddling daisies peeping nigh,
Untouched by sheep that hither stray,
Who from its prickles sneak away;
And endive flowering closely by,
That steals its colours from the sky.
The old man's beard too in its prime
Covers the hedges like a rime,
With downy flowers that, thickly twined,
Oft shield the swain from rain and wind.
These live till summer's last decay,
And lingering oft in fond delay
With autumn, if she enters mild,
Are sought and found by many a child,
Who sort their blooms in posies fair,
And garlands glad her yellow hair.
O Autumn, now thy reign is nigh,
I fain would hail thy majesty,
But hollow winds and tumbling floods,
And surging showers and yellow woods,
These are thy mighty minstrelsy,
Who, maddening into life with thee,
Would make, amid their strains divine,
Unheard the song so tame as mine.

372

A SUNDAY WITH SHEPHERDS AND HERDBOYS

The shepherds and the herding swains
Keep their sabbaths on the plains;
For them the church bells vainly call;
Fields are their church and house and all;
They'll lie and catch the passing sound
That comes from steeples shining round,

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Enjoying in the service time
The happy bells' delightful chime,
And, if they sit on rising ground,
To view the landscape spreading round,
Swimming from the following eye
In greens and stems of every dye
O'er wood and vale and fen's smooth lap
Like a richly coloured map;
Square plots of clover red and white
Scented with summer's warm delight,
And cinquefoil of a fresher stain,
And different greens of warmèd grain;
Wheat spindles bursting into ear
And browning gently; grasses sere
In swathy seed-pods dried by heat,
Rustling when brushed by passing feet;
And beans and peas of deadening green,
And cornland's ribbon strips between,
And stretching villages that lie
Like light spots in a deeper sky.

And from the fields they'll often steal
The green peas for a Sunday meal,
And in snug nooks, their huts beside,
The gipsy blazes they provide,
Shaking the rotten from the trees,
While some sit round to shell the peas,
Or pick from hedges pilfered wood
To boil on props their stolen food;
Sitting on stones or heaps of brakes,
Each of the wild repast partakes,
Telling to pass the hours along
Tales that to fitter days belong,
While one within his scrip contains
A shattered Bible's thumbed remains,
O'er whose blank leaf with pious care
A host of names is scribbled there.

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The herdboys, anxious after play,
Find sports to pass the time away,
Fishing for struttles in the brooks
With thread for lines and pins for hooks,
And stripping 'neath the willow shade
In warm muddy ponds to bathe,
And pelting with unerring eye
The heedless swallows slanting by;
Oft breaking boughs from trees to kill
The nest of wasps beside a hill,
Till one gets stung, then they resort
And follow to less dangerous sport
(Leaving to chance their sheep and cows),
To thread the brakes and forest boughs
To scare the squirrel's lively joys
With stones and sticks and shouting noise,
That sat within its secret place
Upon its tail to clean its face;
When found, they shout with joy to see
It hurly-burly round a tree;
And as they turn in sight again,
It peeps and squats behind a grain;
And oft they'll cut up sticks to try
The holes where badgers darkling lie,
Looking for footmark prints about
The fresh mounds not long rooted out;
And peep in burrows newly done
Where rabbits from their noises run;
Where oft in terror's wild affright
They spy—and startle at the sight—
Rolled like a whipthong round and round,
Asleep upon the sunny ground,
A snake, that wakens at their play
And starts as full of fear as they;
And newt-shaped swifts that nimbly pass
And rustle in the brown, lank grass.

The herder too is peeping round

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To find a tenant for his ground;
Heedless of rest or parson's prayers,
He seldom to the church repairs,
But thinks religion hath its due
In paying yearly for his pew.
Soon as fair morn puts night away
And has put on her mantle grey,
Before one sunbeam o'er the ground
Spindles its light and shadow round,
He's o'er the fields as soon as morn
To see what stock are in the corn:
A neighing colt that tries to catch
A gate at night left off the latch
By traveller seeking home in haste
Or the clown by fancies chased,
That, lasting while he made a stand,
Opens each gate with fearful hand,
Fearing a minute to remain
And put it on the latch again;
And cows, who often with their horns
Toss from the gaps the stuffing thorns—
These, like a fox upon the watch,
He in the morning tries to catch
And drives them to the pound for pay,
Careless about the sabbath day.

THE INSECT WORLD

The insect world amid the suns and dew
Awake and hum their tiny songs anew,
And climb the totter-grass and blossom's stem
As huge in size as mighty oaks to them;
And rushy burnets on the pasture rise
As tall as castles to their little eyes;
Each leaf's a town and the smooth meadow grass
A mighty world whose bounds they never pass;
E'en spots no bigger than the husbandman's
Or shepherd's noontide dwarf-shrunk shadow spans

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—Or e'en the milkmaid tripping through the dew,
Each space she covers with her slender shoe—
Seem to their view high woods in which they roam
As lorn, lost wanderers many miles from home,
Creeping up bents and down whole weary hours
And resting oft on the soft breasts of flowers;
Till age, in minutes long as years, creeps on,
Or waning summer warns them to be gone.

FLOWERS

Ere yet the year is one month old,
In spite of frost and wind and snow,
Bare-bosomed to the quaking cold,
Spring's little selfsown flowers will blow;
And ever kin to early hours
Peep aconites in cups of gold,
With frilled leaves muffled round their flowers
Like tender maidens shunning cold;

And then as winter's parting pledge,
Like true love in his crabbed reign,
The violets 'neath the naked hedge
Peep thro' the rustling leaves again,
Soon as from off the thicket's moss
The sunshine clears the doubting snow,
And the o'erjoyed and neighing horse
Can find a patch of green to blow.

Like jewels brought by early hours,
These little littered blossoms come;
Like wanderers from fairy bowers,
They smile and gladly find a home;
And on the threshold of the spring,
Like timid children out of doors,
They lie and wait the birds to sing,
And laugh upon the splashy moors.

377

In April's smiling-frowning weather,
Like younkers to a holiday,
The young flowers bud in troops together
To wait the feast of merry May;
In sunny nooks and shelter nurst,
Buds all their early blooms display,
Where sunbeams show their faces first
And make when there the longest stay.

TO THE SNIPE

Lover of swamps
And quagmire overgrown
With hassock-tufts of sedge, where fear encamps
Around thy home alone,

The trembling grass
Quakes from the human foot,
Nor bears the weight of man to let him pass
Where thou, alone and mute,

Sittest at rest
In safety, near the clump
Of huge flag-forest that thy haunts invest
Or some old sallow stump,

Thriving on seams
That tiny islands swell,
Just hilling from the mud and rancid streams,
Suiting thy nature well;

For here thy bill,
Suited by wisdom good,
Of rude unseemly length, doth delve and drill
The jellied mass for food;

And here, mayhap,
When summer suns have drest
The moor's rude, desolate and spongy lap,
May hide thy mystic nest—

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Mystic indeed;
For isles that oceans make
Are scarcely more secure for birds to build
Than this flag-hidden lake.

Boys thread the woods
To their remotest shades;
But in these marshy flats, these stagnant floods,
Security pervades.

From year to year
Places untrodden lie,
Where man nor boy nor stock hath ventured near,
Naught gazed on but the sky

And fowl that dread
The very breath of man,
Hiding in spots that never knew his tread,
A wild and timid clan,

Widgeon and teal
And wild duck—restless lot,
That from man's dreaded sight will ever steal
To the most dreary spot.

Here tempests howl
Around each flaggy plot,
Where they who dread man's sight, the water fowl,
Hide and are frightened not.

'Tis power divine
That heartens them to brave
The roughest tempest and at ease recline
On marshes or the wave.

Yet instinct knows
Not safety's bounds:—to shun
The firmer ground where skulking fowler goes
With searching dogs and gun,

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By tepid springs
Scarcely one stride across
(Though bramble from its edge a shelter flings
Thy safety is at loss)

—And never choose
The little sinky foss,
Streaking the moors whence spa-red water spews
From pudges fringed with moss;

Freebooters there,
Intent to kill or slay,
Startle with cracking guns the trepid air,
And dogs thy haunts betray.

From danger's reach
Here thou art safe to roam,
Far as these washy flag-sown marshes stretch
A still and quiet home.

In these thy haunts
I've gleaned habitual love;
From the vague world where pride and folly taunts
I muse and look above.

Thy solitudes
The unbounded heaven esteems,
And here my heart warms into higher moods
And dignifying dreams.

I see the sky
Smile on the meanest spot,
Giving to all that creep or walk or fly
A calm and cordial lot.

Thine teaches me
Right feelings to employ—
That in the dreariest places peace will be
A dweller and a joy.

380

SUMMER IMAGES

Now swarthy summer, which rude health embrowns,
Takes precedence of rosy-fingered spring
And litters from her lap
A world of varied hues.

Joy, never silent with her laugh and song,
And health robust with bosom soft as down,
And patient industry
Still plying busy toils—

These in her merry path run jovial on,
Or hang upon her arm in smiling guise,
And from her happy face
Steal smiles that grace their own.

Thee with thy sultry locks all loose and rude,
And mantle laced with gems of tawdry hues,
I love thee, and as wont
Win pleasure from thy smiles.

And thus delighted, on I thread with thee
Rude wood, wild heath, and cornfield laced with streams,
And feel life's stirring pulse
Throb into genial song.

Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers,
In mighty revels or in city streets,
But joys which soothe
And not distract mine ear,

That one at musing leisure ever meets
In the green woods and meadows summer-shorn,
Or fields where gadfly sounds
Its small and tiresome horn.

Jet-black and shining, from the dripping hedge
Slow peeps the fearful snail,
And from each tiny bent
Withdraws his timid horn.

381

The yellow frog from underneath the swath
Leaps startling as the dog with heavy feet
Brushes across the path
And runs the timid hare.

And mark the bird-boy peep from out the corn,
Bawling aloud to know the passing hour,
And at the lessening day
To list his louder song.

The aspen leaves, enamoured of the wind,
Turn up their silver lining to the sun,
And rustle on the ear
Like fast-approaching showers.

The south-west wind—I love the sudden sound,
And then to feel it gush upon my cheek,
And then with weary pause
Await the creeping storm.

To me right luscious sing the stirring leaves,
Just bade to dance attendance on the storm,
That blackens in the south
And threatens hasty showers.

I love the wizard noise, and rave in turn,
Half-vacant thoughts in self-imagined rhymes,
Then hide me from the shower,
And mutter to the winds.

Now sound the village bells; how musical,
Across the valley of that winding flood,
Upon the listening ear
Comes the soft pealing chime;

As glad and healthful as the morning sun,
The shepherd boy leans o'er the meadow bridge
To list their mellow sounds
And muse in vacant joy.

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Woods, meadows, cornfields, all around
Glow in their harmony of varied greens,
While o'er them, lost in light,
Far spreads the laughing sky.

399

THE DREAM

Thou scarest me with dreams.
Job.

When night's last hours, like haunting spirits, creep
With listening terrors round the couch of sleep,
And midnight, brooding in its deepest dye,
Seizes on fear with dismal sympathy,
‘I dreamed a dream’ something akin to fate,
Which superstition's blackest thoughts create—
Something half natural to the grave that seems,
Which death's long trance of slumber haply dreams;
A dream of staggering horrors, and of dread,
Whose shadows fled not when the vision fled,
But clung to memory with their gloomy view,
Till doubt and fancy half believed it true.

That time was come, or seemed as it was come,
When Death no longer makes the grave his home;
When waking spirits leave their earthly rest
To mix for ever with the damned or blest;
When years, in drowsy thousands counted by,
Are hung on minutes with their destiny:
When Time in terror drops his draining glass,
And all things mortal, like to shadows, pass,
As 'neath approaching tempests sinks the sun—
When Time shall leave Eternity begun.
Life swoon'd in terror at that hour's dread birth
As in an ague, shook the fearful Earth;

400

And shuddering Nature seemed herself to shun;
Whilst trembling Conscience felt the deed was done.

A gloomy sadness round the sky was cast,
Where clouds seemed hurrying with unusual haste;
Winds urged them onward, like to restless ships,
And light dim faded in its last eclipse,
And Agitation turned a straining eye,
And Hope stood watching like a bird to fly,
While suppliant Nature, like a child in dread,
Clung to her fading garments till she fled.

Then awful sights began to be revealed,
Which Death's dark dungeons had so long concealed;
Each grave its doomsday-prisoner resigned,
Bursting in noises like a hollow wind;
And spirits, mingling with the living then,
Thrilled fearful voices with the cries of men.
All flying furious, grinning deep despair,
Shaped dismal shadows on the troubled air:
Red lightning shot its flashes as they came,
And passing clouds seemed kindling into flame;
And strong and stronger came the sulphury smell,
With demons following in the breath of hell,
Laughing in mockery as the doomed complained,
Losing their pains in seeing others pained.

Fierce raged destruction, sweeping o'er the land,
And the last counted moment seemed at hand:
As scales near equal hang the earnest eyes
In doubtful balance which shall fall or rise,
So, in the moment of that crashing blast,
Eyes, hearts, and hopes paused trembling for the last.
Loud burst the thunder's clap, and yawning rents
Gashed the frail garments of the elements;
Then sudden whirlwinds, winged with purple flame
And lightnings' flash, in stronger terrors came;
Burning all life and nature where they fell,
And leaving earth as desolate as hell.

401

The pleasant hues of woods and fields were past,
And nature's beauties had enjoyed their last:
The coloured flower, the green of field and tree,
What they had been for ever ceased to be:
Clouds, raining fire, scorched up the hissing dews;
Grass shrivelled brown in miserable hues;
Leaves fell to ashes in the air's hot breath,
And all awaited universal death.
The sleepy birds, scared from their mossy nest,
Beat through the evil air in vain for rest;
And many a one, the withering shades among,
Wakened to perish o'er its brooded young.
The cattle, startled with the sudden fright,
Sickened from food, and maddened into flight;
And steed and beast in plunging speed pursued
The desperate struggle of the multitude.
The faithful dogs yet knew their owners' face,
And cringing followed with a fearful pace,
Joining the piteous yell with panting breath,
While blasting lightnings followed fast with death;
Then, as destruction stopt the vain retreat,
They dropped, and dying licked their masters' feet.

When sudden thunders paused, loud went the shriek,
And groaning agonies, too much to speak,
From hurrying mortals, who, with ceaseless fears,
Recalled the errors of their vanished years,
Flying in all directions, hope-bereft,
Followed by dangers that would not be left,
Offering wild vows, and begging loud for aid,
Where none was nigh to help them when they prayed.
None stood to listen, or to soothe a friend,
But all complained, and sorrow had no end.
Sons from their fathers, fathers sons did fly,
The strongest fled, and left the weak to die;
Pity was dead: none heeded for another;
Brother left brother; and the frantic mother
For fruitless safety hurried east and west,
And dropped the babe to perish from her breast:

402

All howling prayers that would be noticed never,
And craving mercy that was fled for ever.
While earth, in motion like a troubled sea,
Opened in gulphs of dread immensity,
Amid the wild confusions of despair,
And buried deep the howling and the prayer
Of countless multitudes, and closed—and then
Opened, and swallowed multitudes agen.

Stars drunk with dread rolled giddy from the heaven,
And staggering worlds like wrecks in storms were driven;
The pallid moon hung fluttering on the sight,
As startled bird whose wings are stretched for flight;
And o'er the east a fearful light begun
To show the sun rise—not the morning sun,
But one in wild confusion, doomed to rise
And drop again in horror from the skies;
To heaven's midway it reeled, and changed to blood,
Then dropped, and light rushed after like a flood.
The heaven's blue curtains rent and shrank away,
And heaven itself seem'd threaten'd with decay;
While hopeless distance with a boundless stretch
Flashed on despair the joy it could not reach,
A moment's mockery—ere the last dim light
Vanished, and left an everlasting night:
And with that light Hope fled, and shrieked farewell,
And hell in yawning echoes mocked that yell.

Now Night resumed her uncreated vest,
And chaos came again, but not its rest;
The melting glooms, that spread perpetual stains,
Kept whirling on in endless hurricanes;
And tearing noises, like a troubled sea,
Broke up that silence which no more would be.

The reeling earth sank loosened from its stay,
And nature's wrecks all felt their last decay.
The yielding, burning soil, that fled my feet,
I seemed to feel, and struggled to retreat;

403

And midst the dreads of horror's mad extreme
I lost all notion of its being a dream:
Sinking, I fell through depths that seemed to be
As far from fathom as Eternity;
While dismal faces on the darkness came,
With wings of dragons, and with fangs of flame,
Writhing in agonies of wild despairs,
And giving tidings of a doom like theirs.
I felt all terrors of the damned, and fell
With conscious horror that my doom was hell:
And Memory mocked me, like a haunting ghost,
With light and life and pleasures that were lost.
As dreams turn night to day, and day to night,
So Memory flashed her shadows of that light
That once bade morning suns in glory rise,
To bless green fields and trees and purple skies,
And wakened life its pleasures to behold;—
That light flashed on me, like a story told;
And days misspent with friends and fellow men,
And sins committed—all were with me then.
The boundless hell, where tortures never tire,
Glimmered beneath me like a world on fire:
That soul of fire, like to its souls entombed,
Consuming on, and ne'er to be consumed,
Seemed nigh at hand—where oft the sulphury damps
O'er-awed its light, as glimmer dying lamps,
Spreading a horrid gloom from side to side,
A twilight scene of terrors half descried.
Sad boiled the billows of that burning sea,
And Fate's sad yellings dismal seemed to be;
Blue rolled its waves with horrors uncontrolled,
And its live wrecks of souls dashed howling as they rolled.

Again I struggled, and the spell was broke,
And midst the laugh of mocking ghosts I woke;
My eyes were opened on an unhoped sight—
The early morning and its welcome light,
And, as I pondered o'er the past profound,
I heard the cock crow, and I blest the sound.

404

THE NIGHTMARE

Her steps take hold of hell.
—Solomon.

My dream began in bliss and lifted high
My sleeping feelings into fancy's joy;
Though like one wandering in a sweet far land
I seemed to hear and could not understand
Among the many voices humming by,
Nor knew one face where many met my eye.
That dim-seen mystery which in dreams appears
Was mine, a feeling of joy, hopes, and fears,
Mingling together; yet I knew not why,
Where all was beauty, trouble should be by.
The place was light—and yet no sun was there
To cause it—pale and beautifully fair,
Nor glare nor gloom but like eternity
Mild, like what spirits may expect to see;
But there was earth and sky and trees and flowers,
Different in kind and yet resembling ours;
And mightiest objects that the eye surveyed,
No light they clouded and they cast no shade;
But in that sky no cloud crossed east and west,
No storm crept frowning o'er its crystal rest.

At length a mighty mansion gathered high,
Whose bounds seemed almost boundless to the eye,
A place that wakened fancy's wonders there,
As mystery's mask left half her shadow bare;
A shapeless shape and semblance faint of things
That earth calls palaces, the place of kings.
Here all seemed entering; yet there was no crowd,
No anxious rushing, and no noises loud.
All seemed intent on matters yet unknown,
And every other's interest seemed their own,
Like as a brook pursues its gliding way,
Urged by an impulse which they could not stay.
Fear shrank to silence now and hovered round,
Till wandering steps seemed listening for their sound.

405

Restless as waves in their eternal race,
Where one crowd passed another took its place.
The gathering throngs that seemed to make one spot,
I seemed to know some and then knew them not;
Some more familiar seemed; I turned again
And they were strange and left a lonely pain;
And other eyes on my inquiries came
And seemed they knew me, but to feel the same;
As birds seek nests which idle boys have got,
They sought what had been and they found it not;
What memory's shadows dimly might display—
Friends, loves, and kin—found none and turned away.
At length one singled from the mighty throng
Where I had gazed on vacant looks so long,
With flowing robes, blue eyes, and face divine,
Came forth and fixed her tender gaze on mine.
It looked familiar as I'd seen the same;
But recollections of her earthly name
Were lost, if e'er she had a claim to one;
She joined my steps and seemed to lead me on.
We entered with the rest, and by my side
She stood, my all companion, friend, and guide.
Arches empillared like the rainbow's height
Went sweeping up and almost left the sight;
And yet o'er them a covering met the eye,
As earth seems covered with surrounding sky.
At last the silence with a murmur broke
Like the first hum when organs are awoke,
And every face seemed turned towards the sound
Where hope would soothe and mystery would confound;
Fate seemed as writing upon every brow
A fearful question, ‘Who'll be summoned now?’
Yet woman seemed (though beauty's face beguiles
One's heart to favour) checking fears with smiles;
And my companion seated by my side
Seemed checking mine and strove her own to hide;
Her long white hand pressed mine with cheering power
As offering safety in a dangerous hour;
She looked and spake not yet, her lips the while

406

Closed mid the tumult in a timid smile;
And as the mystery waking gathered near,
Looked as one dares a danger, ‘Never fear.’
More loud the music rose and yet more loud
Chorused with humming of a mighty crowd;
And through the mild light that at first clothed all
A brighter streamed, like sunbeams on a wall,
Growing more bright and losing it away
Like creeping sunrise on a summer's day;
A light that dazzled not, and yet it threw
Around o'erpowering splendour as it grew;
More high the music seemed, more strong the fear,
And awful symptoms rousing gathered near;
Voices awoke from many a troubling tongue,
But no words came distinctly from the throng;
Fears grew within me, and I fain had tried
To search the purpose of my angel guide.
Anxiety turned on her quiet face,
And recollections would [old] memories trace,
As one I'd witnessed once or else the same,
The looks of one I had not power to name;
She seemed at first as living beauty seems,
Then changed more lovely in the shade of dreams;
Then faded dim, confused, and hurrying by
Like memory waning into vacancy.
The music rose in terror's ecstasies,
In gradual swells like winds in summer trees,
Gathering and gathering to its highest bound,
And burst at last in mystery's mightiest sound.

Millions of hopes, hung on a spider's tie
'Tween time's suspense and fate's eternity,
Seemed cut at once, and all around the host
Felt at that moment if his own was lost;
And in a moment sudden changes rang
Confusion's uproar—discord's jarring clang,
Harsh noises, stunning crush, and thrilling yell,
As the whole mansion on their shoulders fell.
A light glowed round with horror's staggering sound,

407

And all seemed giddy, reeling, sinking round;
A weight plopt on me with a sudden crush,
A noise like waters that for freedom rush;
I could not move, nor speak; yet reason's power
Seemed wide awake in that spell-prisoning hour;
I felt as tried, whate'er the lot might be,
And strove and struggled with my destiny;
And then my eyes in hopeless wandering spied
That lovely shadow which had been my guide,
Seemly bent o'er me, offering mercy's plea,
'Tween death's dark hell and life's eternity.
Her face grew pale and awful, yet a shade
Of beauty hung in every change it made.
Her eyes o'er mine hung beautiful and bright,
Like the sun setting upon deepening night;
And love, fear, hope—all mortals can recall—
I felt none separate, but I felt them all.
Her white round arms threw back her streaming hair,
And smiles hung o'er me as in death's despair.

Something drew near me and my guide withdrew,
Beauteous as ever but in terror too;
Her bright eyes lessened dim but not with tears,
Heavy with sorrows and the gloom of fears;
And scarce I turned her desert flight to trace
Ere a foul fiend seemed standing in her place.
'Twas Mary's voice that hung in her farewell;
The sound that moment on my memory fell—
A sound that held the music of the past;
But she was blest and I alone was cast;
My dangers dimmed the glory of her eyes,
And turned her smiling and her hopes to sighs.
The gloomiest pictures fear could ever make,
The fiend drew near to make my terrors ache—
Huge circles lost to eyes, and rotten hulls
Raised with dead groans from the dread ‘place of skulls’,—
Then turned with horrid laugh its haggard head
To where the earth-loved shadow dimly fled,
As mockery—waking hell with horrid sound

408

Like many murmurs moving underground.
I shuddering struggled from his horrid glare
And snapped my bonds and ended my despair,
And—as woke reason from the vision crept,
She seemed to start as one that ne'er had slept;
Horror and joy and mystery when by
Seemed less of vision than reality,
A nightmare mystery of a sealing doom,
A feeble picture of the dread to come.

I wish to acknowledge that whatsoever merit this and The Dream may be thought to possess they owe it in part to the English Opium Eater, as they were written after (though actual dreams) the perusal of that singular and interesting production.

THE ROBBER

Yet what am I? A robber: and why bring
In robbers' haunts so fair and sweet a thing?
Men who will steal a purse a heart will steal,
And beauty wakes the roughest hearts to feel.
Why did I wrong her with the name of wife
And hate her as the dearest thing in life?
For love like mine is nothing else but hate—
To link bright beings to so dark a fate;
Who if she knew one link that holds that tie,
Her heart would chill with terrors all and die,
Her ears would grow too adamant to hear
One word related of that tale of fear,
Her soul would be on fire could she but see
One shadow of a robber's history.

'Tis night, 'tis midnight!—hark, the horse's tramp
Comes plashing through the old heath's hollow swamp.
We tied the gate—and ere that gate we tied,
Or held that weapon, would that I had died!
The traveller heard one whistle shrill and clear,
And muttered: ‘Poachers! come on, Dobbin, never fear!’
The horse could see us at the wood gate stand
And snorted at the weapon in my hand;

409

But the old farmer checked the trembling steed
To try the gate—and midnight knew the deed.
The shot was fired—dead silence paused—then groans
That would have fretted human hearts to stones;
And that last groan of uttermost despair,
I hear it now—or did I stir the chair?
That last groan waked an echo which I hear
Now and for ever, here and everywhere—
A howl—a shriek—a hoarse unearthly call—
'Twas this and that and all made up of all;
Just from our lair it came within the wood:
‘They're mine; they've sealed the bond in death and blood.’
The gun dropt from my hand, and where it fell
The ground seemed opening like the mouth of hell.
I was not drunk but sober all, yet fear
Could see that sight and still that sound could hear;
And though I stopt my ears and held my breath,
The wind and grass and bushes muttered ‘Death!’
‘Do good and good shall come,’ the parson said;
But I was poaching while he preached or prayed.
And when he read his lessons and his prayers,
My mind was busy after dogs and hares.
‘Do good and good shall come.’ I know it now.
Oh, could I wipe this murther from my brow!
And good had come, but harm blocks all the way,
And I must suffer, for I cannot pray.
Look! there's the wood gate—don't you see it tied?
Untie it now—and throw that gun aside!
No; all's too late—you help me all in vain;
Blood will for ever on its bands remain.
I hear the groan again, the midnight yell;
Guns may go off half cocked—but ere mine fell
The shot was fired; yet when it met the ground
A sputtering fire one moment blazed around;
Trees trembled to their trunks, a dreadful sign,
When that unearthly hoarseness muttered ‘Mine!’
I hear't again! Oh, wipe that stain away,
That stains that dreadful place this very day.
Nay, chop the bushes up, they speak so loud.

410

Look! now 'tis there upon that dismal cloud:
A giant—no a monster—sails; look there!
He'll swallow up the moon, stars, all—beware!
He hears the muttering guns; well, never fear;
'Tis but a hare—the crime is not severe.
There, now 'tis changed!—a dragon from his hole,
His body black, his head a burning coal:
Oh, what a horrid picture! don't you see?
He darts his venom fangs and mocks at me.
Ah, that's the horrid demon of the heath!
Chop down those trees—I choke for want of breath.
Nay, take that bullet out—'twill burst the gun!
The gun's not bursted, but the deed is done.
Grub up the bushes! ‘Death,’ they sighed and sighed.
I stopt my ears to hear; he groaned—and died.

The robber's wife had all that women heir,
A form all lovely, and a face so fair
In nature's sunny lap she seemed as nursed,
Until the robber into misery cursed
Her poor forsaken presence. Wonder stared
On that sweet face that sorrow sadly marred,
And marvelled how a flower of winning grace
Could trust itself in such a dangerous place
As the affections of a robber's heart.
But in love's faith suspicion bears no part;
They could not feel, while wasting idle breath,
That love like ivy clings to life and death.
Yet when the law's decision met her ears,
The last hope [fell] that propt up all her fears;
So young, so beautiful, she was not born
To stand against the world's down-trampling scorn.
Rich beauty ne'er was made for thorny ways,
That only blooms and thrives on smiles and praise.
It could not bear the withering frowns of scorn;
As well might blossoms bear a frosty morn.
She withered into death for nothing done,
And shunned her life that had no sin to shun.
Then pity's hand was held before its eyes,

411

And scorn itself grew tender in disguise;
‘So young, so beautiful, and thus to die!’—
So pity sighed; scorn uttered no reply.

LIFE, DEATH, AND ETERNITY

A shadow moving by one's side,
That would a substance seem—
That is, yet is not—though descried
Like skies beneath the stream;
A tree that's ever in the bloom,
Whose fruit is never rife;
A wish for joys that never come—
Such are the hopes of Life.

A dark, inevitable night,
A blank that will remain;
A waiting for the morning light,
Where waiting is in vain;
A gulph, where pathway never led
To show the depth beneath;
A thing we know not, yet we dread—
The hornèd thing—'tis Death.

The vaulted void of purple sky
That everywhere extends,
That stretches from the dazzled eye,
In space that never ends;
A morning whose uprisen sun
No setting e'er shall see;
A day that comes without a noon—
Such is Eternity.

412

ANTIQUITY

Antiquity, thou dark sublime,
Though mystery wakes thy song,
Thou dateless child of hoary Time,
Thy name shall linger long!
In vain Age bared Destruction's arm
To blight thy strength and fame;
Learning still keeps thy embers warm,
And kindles them to flame.

Nay, learning's self may turn to dust,
And ignorance again
May leave its glimmering lamp to rust;
Antiquity shall reign!
Creation's self thy date shall be,
And Earth's age be as thine;
The sun and moon are types of thee,
Nor shall they longer shine.

Though Time may o'er thy memory leap,
And Ruin's frowns encroach;
Eternity shall start from sleep
To hear thy near approach.
Though bounds are for thy station set,
Still, ere those bounds are past,
Thy fame with Time shall struggle yet,
And die with Time the last.

Whene'er I walk where thou hast been,
And still art doomed to be,
Reflection wakens at the scene,
As at eternity;
To think what days in millions by
Have bade suns rise and set
On thy unwearied gazing eye,
And left thee looking yet!

While those that raised thy early fame
With hope's persisting hand,
During as marble left thy name
And graved their own on sand:

413

That same sun did its smiles impart,
In that same spreading sky,
When thou wert left; and here thou art,
Like one that cannot die!

On the first page that Time unfurled,
Thy childhood did appear,
And now thy volume is the world,
And thou art everywhere.
Each leaf is filled with many a doom
Of kingdoms past away,
Where tyrant power in little room
Records its own decay.

Thy Roman fame o'er England still
Swells many a lingering scar,
Where Caesars led, with conquering skill,
Their legions on to war:
And camps and stations still abide
On many a sloping hill;
Though Time hath done its all to hide—
Thy presence guards them still.

The moss that crowns the mountain stone,
The grass that greens the plain,
All love to make thy haunts their own,
And with thy steps remain.
And ivy, as thy lasting bower,
In gloomy grandeur creeps,
And, careless of life's passing hour,
Its endless summer keeps.

I walk with thee my native plains,
As in a nobler clime,
Rapt where thy memory still remains,
Disciple unto Time,
Whose foot in ruins crushed Power's fame,
And left its print behind,
Till Ruin, weary of its name,
Their fate to thee resigned.

414

And 'neath thy care, in mist sublime,
They reign and linger still;
Though ivy finds no wall to climb,
Grass crowns each swelling hill;
Where slumbering Time will often find
His rebel deeds again,
And turn a wondering look behind
To see them still remain.

Thus through the past thy name appears,
All hoary and sublime,
Unburied in the grave of years,
To run its race with Time;
While men, as sunbeams gild the brook,
Shine till a cloud comes on,
And then, ere Time a stride hath took,
Their name and all is gone.

Temple and tower of mighty name,
And monumental bust,
Neglect the errands of their fame,
And mingle with the dust:
The clouds of ruin soon efface
What pride had told in vain;
But still thy genius haunts the place,
And long thy steps remain.

Lorn Silence o'er their mystery dreams,
And round them Nature blooms
Sad, as a May-flower's dwelling seems
With solitary tombs!
Round where their buried memory sleeps,
Spring spreads its dewy sky
In tender mood, as one that weeps
Life's faded majesty.

Time's frost may crumble stubborn towers,
Fame once believed its own;
Thou still art reigning, past his powers,
And ruin builds thy throne:

415

When all is past, the very ground
Is sacred unto thee;
When dust and weeds hide all around,
That dust thy home shall be.

418

THE TOPER'S RANT

Give me an old crone of a fellow
Who loves to drink ale in a horn,
And sing racy songs when he's mellow,
Which topers sung ere he was born.
For such a friend fate shall be thankèd,
And, line but our pockets with brass,
We'd sooner suck ale through a blanket
Than thimbles of wine from a glass.

Away with your proud thimble-glasses
Of wine foreign nations supply,
A toper ne'er drinks to the lasses
O'er a draught scarce enough for a fly.
Club me with the hedger and ditcher
Or beggar that makes his own horn,
To join o'er an old gallon pitcher
Foaming o'er with the essence of corn.

I care not with whom I get tipsy
Or where with brown stout I regale,
I'll weather the storm with a gipsy
If he be a lover of ale.
I'll weather the toughest storm weary
Altho' I get wet to the skin,
For my outside I never need fear me
While warm with real stingo within.

We'll sit till the bushes are dropping
Like the spout of a watering pan,
And till the cag's drained there's no stopping,
We'll keep up the ring to a man.
We'll sit till Dame Nature is feeling
The breath of our stingo so warm,
And bushes and trees begin reeling
In our eyes like to ships in a storm.

We'll start it three hours before seven,
When larks wake the morning to dance,

419

And we'll stand it till night's black eleven,
When witches ride over to France;
And we'll sit it in spite of the weather
Till we tumble dead drunk on the plain,
When the morning shall find us together,
All willing to stand it again.

ENCLOSURE

Far spread the moory ground, a level scene
Bespread with rush and one eternal green,
That never felt the rage of blundering plough,
Though centuries wreathed spring blossoms on its brow.
Autumn met plains that stretched them far away
In unchecked shadows of green, brown, and grey.
Unbounded freedom ruled the wandering scene;
No fence of ownership crept in between
To hide the prospect from the gazing eye;
Its only bondage was the circling sky.
A mighty flat, undwarfed by bush and tree,
Spread its faint shadow of immensity,
And lost itself, which seemed to eke its bounds,
In the blue mist the horizon's edge surrounds.

Now this sweet vision of my boyish hours,
Free as spring clouds and wild as forest flowers,
Is faded all—a hope that blossomed free,
And hath been once as it no more shall be.
Enclosure came, and trampled on the grave
Of labour's rights, and left the poor a slave;
And memory's pride, ere want to wealth did bow,
Is both the shadow and the substance now.
The sheep and cows were free to range as then
Where change might prompt, nor felt the bonds of men.
Cows went and came with every morn and night
To the wild pasture as their common right;
And sheep, unfolded with the rising sun,
Heard the swains shout and felt their freedom won,

420

Tracked the red fallow field and heath and plain,
Or sought the brook to drink, and roamed again;
While the glad shepherd traced their tracks along,
Free as the lark and happy as her song.
But now all's fled, and flats of many a dye
That seemed to lengthen with the following eye,
Moors losing from the sight, far, smooth, and blea,
Where swopt the plover in its pleasure free,
Are banished now with heaths once wild and gay
As poet's visions of life's early day.
Like mighty giants of their limbs bereft,
The skybound wastes in mangled garbs are left,
Fence meeting fence in owner's little bounds
Of field and meadow, large as garden-grounds,
In little parcels little minds to please,
With men and flocks imprisoned, ill at ease.
For with the poor scared freedom bade farewell,
And fortune-hunters totter where they fell;
They dreamed of riches in the rebel scheme
And find too truly that they did but dream.

THE LAMENT OF SWORDY WELL

I'm Swordy Well, a piece of land
That's fell upon the town,
Who worked me till I couldn't stand
And crush me now I'm down.

There was a time my bit of ground
Made freeman of the slave,
The ass no pounder'd dare to pound
When I his supper gave.

The gipsy's camp was not afraid,
I made his dwelling free,
Till vile enclosure came, and made
A parish slave of me.

421

Alas, dependence, thou'rt a brute
Want only understands;
His feelings wither branch and root
Who falls in parish hands.

The muck that clouts the ploughman's shoe,
The moss that hides the stone,
Now I'm become the parish due,
Is more than I can own.

The silver springs are naked dykes,
With scarce a clump of rushes;
When gain got nigh, the tasteless tykes
Grubbed up trees, banks, and bushes.

Though I'm no man, yet any wrong
Some sort of right may seek,
And I am glad if e'en a song
Give me the room to speak.

I've got among such grubbling gear
And such a hungry pack,
If I brought harvests twice a year,
They'd bring me nothing back.

And should the price of grain get high
—Lord help and keep it low!—
I shan't possess a butterfly
Nor get a weed to grow,

I shan't possess a yard of ground
To bid a mouse to thrive;
For gain has put me in a pound,
I scarce can keep alive.

Ah me!—they turned me inside out
For sand and grit and stones,
And turned my old green hills about
And picked my very bones.

422

The bees fly round in feeble rings
And find no blossom by,
Then thrum their almost weary wings
Upon the moss, and die.

Rabbits that find my hills turned o'er
Forsake my poor abode;
They dread a workhouse like the poor,
And nibble on the road.

If with a clover bottle now
Spring dares to lift her head,
The next day brings the hasty plough
And makes me misery's bed.

I've scarce a nook to call my own
For things that creep or fly;
The beetle hiding 'neath a stone
Does well to hurry by.

And if I could but find a friend
With no deceit to sham,
Who'd send me some few sheep to tend,
And leave me as I am,

To keep my hills from cart and plough
And strife of mongrel men,
And as spring found me find me now,
I should look up agen.

And save his Lordship's woods, that past
The day of danger dwell,
Of all the fields I am the last
That my own face can tell;

Yet what with stone-pits' delving holes,
And strife to buy and sell,
My name will quickly be the whole
That's left of Swordy Well.

423

TO ANNA, THREE YEARS OLD

My Anna, summer laughs in mirth,
And we will of the party be,
And leave the crickets in the hearth
For green fields' merry minstrelsy.

I see thee now with little hand
Catch at each object passing by,
The happiest thing in all the land
Except the bee and butterfly.

The weed-based arches' walls that stride
O'er where the meadow water falls
Will turn thee from thy path aside
To gaze upon the mossy walls.

And limpid brook that leaps along,
Gilt with the summer's burnished gleam,
Will stop thy little tale or song
To gaze upon its crimping stream.

Thou'lt leave my hand with eager speed
The new-discovered things to see—
The old pond with its water-weed
And danger-daring willow-tree,
Who leans, an ancient invalid,
O'er spots where deepest waters be.

In sudden shout and wild surprise
I hear thy simple wonderment,
As new things meet thy childish eyes
And wake some innocent intent;

As bird or bee or butterfly
Bounds through the crowd of merry leaves
And starts the rapture of thine eye
To run for what it ne'er achieves;

424

The simple reasoning arguments
Shaped to thy fancy's little view,
The joys and rapturous intents
That everywhere pursue.

So dreamed I over hope's young boon,
When merry summer was returning,
And little thought that time so soon
Would change my early hope to mourning.

I thought to have heard thee mid the bowers
To mock the cuckoo's merry song,
And see thee seek thy daisy flowers
That's been thy anxious choice so long.

But thou art on the bed of pain,
So tells each poor forsaken toy.
Ah, could I see that happy hour
When these shall be thy heart's employ,
And see thee toddle o'er the plain,
And stoop for flowers, and shout for joy.

446

POESY

Oh! I have been thy lover long,
Soul-soothing Poesy;
If 'twas not thou inspired the song,
I still owe much to thee:
And still I feel the cheering balm
Thy heavenly smiles supply,
That keeps my struggling bosom calm
When life's rude storms are high.

Oh! in that sweet romance of life
I loved thee, when a boy,
And ever felt thy gentle strife
Awake each little joy:

447

To thee was urged each nameless song,
Soul-soothing Poesy;
And as my hopes waxed warm and strong,
My love was more for thee.

'Twas thou and Nature bound, and smiled,
Rude garlands round my brow—
Those dreams that pleased me when a child,
Those hopes that warm me now.
Each year with brighter blooms returned,
Gay visions danced along,
And, at the sight, my bosom burned,
And kindled into song.

Springs came not, as they yearly come
To low and vulgar eyes,
With here and there a flower in bloom,
Green trees, and brighter skies:
Thy fancies flushed my boyish sight,
And gilt its earliest hours;
And Spring came wrapt in beauty's light,
An angel dropping flowers.

Oh! I have been thy lover long,
Soul-soothing Poesy,
And sung to thee each simple song,
With witching ecstasy,
Of flowers, and things that claimed from thee
Of life an equal share,
And whispered soft their tales to me
Of pleasure or of care.

With thee, life's errand all perform,
And feel its joy and pain;
Flowers shrink, like me, from blighting storm,
And hope for suns again:
The bladed grass, the flower, the leaf,
Companions seem to be,
That tell their tales of joy and grief,
And think and feel with me.

516

HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL

We well may wonder o'er the change of scene
Now summer's contrast thro' the land is spread,
And turn us back where winter's tempest fled
And left naught living but the ivy's green.
The then bare woods, that trembled overhead
Like spectres mid the storm of what had been
And wrecks of beauty, ne'er to bloom again,
Are now all glory. Nature smiles as free
As the last summer had commenced its reign
And she were blooming in eternity.
So in this life, when future thoughts beguile
And from past care our spirits get relieved,
Hope cheers us onward with as sweet a smile
As if before she never had deceived.

523

PROVIDENCE (II)

It hides the future, and leaves room for hope
To smile and promise joys that may not come;
And cares from which our fortunes can't elope
Are robbed of half their terrors, being dumb
And all unable to foretell their speed.
This blessed ignorance is half the sum
Of providence; thus all are blest indeed,
The weak and strong, the timid and the bold;
Thus will the hare feel safe in its retreat,
Where lay the murdering fox an hour before;
And upon boughs warm with the falcon's feet,
The wren will perch, and dream of harm no more.
Kind providence amid contending strife
Bids weakness feel the liberty of life.

525

AUTUMN

Autumn comes laden with her ripened load
Of fruitage and so scatters them abroad
That the fern-smothered heath and mole-hill waste
Are black with bramble berries—where in haste
The chubby urchins from the village hie

526

To feast them there, stained with the purple dye;
While painted woods around my rambles be
In draperies worthy of eternity.
Yet will the leaves soon patter on the ground,
And death's deaf voice awake at every sound:
One drops—then others—and the last that fell
Rings for those left behind their passing-bell.
Thus memory everywhere her tidings brings
How sad death robs us of life's dearest things.

TO THE MEMORY OF BLOOMFIELD (I)

Sweet unassuming minstrel! not to thee
The dazzling fashions of the day belong;
Nature's wild pictures, field, and cloud, and tree,
And quiet brooks, far distant from the throng,
In murmurs tender as the toiling bee,
Make the sweet music of thy gentle song.
Well, Nature owns thee: let the crowd pass by;

527

The tide of fashion is a stream too strong
For pastoral brooks, that gently flow and sing:
But Nature is their source, and earth and sky
Their annual offering to her current bring.
Thy gentle muse and memory need no sigh;
For thine shall murmur on to many a spring,
When prouder streams are summer-burnt and dry.

TO THE MEMORY OF BLOOMFIELD (II)

The shepherd musing o'er his summer dreams,
The May-day wild flowers in the meadow grass,
The sunshine sparkling in the valley streams,
The singing ploughman and haymaking lass—
These live, the summer of thy rural themes;
Thy green memorials these, and they surpass
The cobweb praise of fashion; every May
Shall find a native Giles beside his plough,
Joining the skylark's song at early day;
And summer, rustling in the ripening corn,
Shall meet thy rustic lover as sweet as now,
Offering to Mary's lips ‘the brimming horn’;
And seasons round thy humble grave shall be
Fond lingering pilgrims to remember thee.

528

OLD POESY (II)

To turn from pages of this modern art
To fame's old pages that real life impart,
We seem as startled from unnatural dreams
To hear the summer voice of woods and streams,
And feel the sunny air, right green and young,
Breathe music round as though a siren sung;
And greet, as art's vain painted scenes are by,
The soul-stirred impulse of a living sky,
As in long droughts of summer's parchèd hours
Falls the refreshment of great rains and showers.
The birds resume their song, the leaves their green,
And brooks, that long dry as the land have been,
Brim-full of the sky's bounty gladly go,
Seeming to sing and wonder why they flow.

530

TO MARY (II)

The flower that's gathered beauty soon forsakes;
The bliss grows feeble as we gain the prize;
Love dreams of joy, and in possession wakes,
Scarce time enough to hail it ere it dies:
Life intermingles, with its cares and sighs,
And rapture's dreams are ended. Heavenly flower,
It is not so with thee! Still fancy's power
Throws rainbow haloes round thee, and thine eyes,
That once did steal their sapphire blue from even,
Are beaming on; thy cheeks' bewitching dye,
Where partial roses all their blooms had given,
Still in fond memory with the rose can vie;
And thy sweet bosom, which to view was heaven,
No lily yet a fairer hue supplies.

531

A FAVOURITE NOOK DESTROYED

Poor outcast refugees of mother earth,
Condemned in vain for rest and peace to roam,
Ye birds and beasts of fate's despited birth,
Forced from the wilds which nature left your home
By vile invasions of encroaching men,
By whom wild nature's nearly dispossest—
The rabbit has no waste to make his den,
And the coy pheasant has not where to rest,
And cawing rook, as spring returns again,
Scarce finds a tree whereon to build its nest.
Ah, tyrant knaves, while preaching freedom's laws,
Crying down tyranny in stronger power,
You glut your vile unsatiated maws
And freedom's birthright in the weak devour.

BEAUTY'S DECAY

Youth speeds its springtide like a princely flower,
And beauty is the jewel of its hour,
That blooms exulting in its triumph there,
‘This work is mine and where is aught so fair?’
Nature looks on and doth in raptures move,
Feeling the earnest of delight is love;
Its pains and happiness are sighs and smiles,
And life in bud with opening hope beguiles;
While scarce a pulse beats 'neath the fickle reign
Of present happiness and future pain.

532

For what hath beauty's self to boast and wear,
A lily skin, a cheek of rose, dark hair,
Bright eyes and ruby lips—time's poor display—
When every hour can steal a charm away?

534

A SPRING MORNING

The Spring comes in with all her hues and smells,
In freshness breathing over hills and dells,
O'er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings,
And meads washed fragrant by their laughing springs.
Fresh are new-opened flowers, untouched and free
From the bold rifling of the amorous bee.
The happy time of singing birds is come,
And love's lone pilgrimage now finds a home;
Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove,
And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love.
The foxes play around their dens and bark
In joy's excess, mid woodland shadows dark.
The flowers join lips below, the leaves above,
And every sound that meets the ear is love.

535

NOVEMBER

Sibyl of months, and worshipper of winds,
I love thee, rude and boisterous as thou art;
And scraps of joy my wandering ever finds
Mid thy uproarious madness—when the start
Of sudden tempests stirs the forest leaves
Into hoarse fury, till the shower set free
Stills the huge swells. Then ebb the mighty heaves,
That sway the forest like a troubled sea.
I love thy wizard noise, and rave in turn
Half-vacant thoughts, and rhymes of careless form:

536

Then hide me from the shower, a short sojourn,
'Neath ivied oak; and mutter to the storm,
Wishing its melody belonged to me,
That I might breathe a living song to thee.

537

MAY (II)

Birds sing and build, and Nature scorns alone
On May's young festival to keep a widow;
The children too have pleasures all their own,
A-plucking lady-smocks along the meadow.
The little brook sings loud among the pebbles,
So very loud that water-flowers, which lie
Where many a silver curdle boils and dribbles,
Dance too with joy as it goes singing by.
Among the pasture mole-hills maidens stoop
To pluck the luscious marjoram for their bosoms;
The greensward's smothered o'er with buttercups,
And whitethorns, they are breaking down with blossoms!
'Tis Nature's livery for the bonny May,
Who keeps her court, and all have holiday.

MAY (III)

Princess of months!—so Nature's choice ordains,
And lady of the summer still she reigns,
In spite of April's youth, who charms in tears,
And rosy June, who wins with blushing face,
July, sweet shepherdess, who wreathes the shears
Of shepherds with her flowers of winning grace,
And sun-tanned August, with her swarthy charms,
The beautiful and rich, and pastoral gay
September, with her pomp of fields and farms,
And wild November's sibylline array;—

538

In spite of beauty's calendar, the year
Garlands with beauty's prize the bonny May.
Where'er she goes, fair Nature hath no peer,
And months do lose their queen when she's away.

MAY (IV)

Up like a princess starts the merry morning,
In draperies of many-coloured cloud;
And skylarks, minstrels of the early dawning,
Pipe forth their hearty anthems long and loud.
The bright enamoured sunshine goes a-maying,
And every flower his laughing eye beguiles;
And on the milkmaid's rosy face a-playing,
Pays court to beauty in its softest smiles.
For May's divinity of joy begun
Adds life and lustre to the golden sun;
And all of life, beneath its glory straying,
Is by May's beauty into worship won;
Till golden eve ennobles all the west,
And day goes blushing like a bride to rest.

540

MORNING

The morning now right earlily in dew
Bathed her sweet naked limbs of fairest hue,
While like a veil all careless thrown aback
On her white shoulders hung her hair so black;
And when the sun a minute earlier rose
The lovely morning sought her cloudy clothes,
But finding none she hasting shrank away;
For night abashed had startled into day.

541

The sun reigned absolute in cloudless sky
And wooed morn's timid beauty to comply,
And scarlet as the dress she earlier wore
Her white face turned that was so fair before;
While fear in every limb diffused its charms
As soft she sighed and melted in his arms.