 | Poems |  |
89
THE RURAL CALENDAR.
91
JANUARY.
Long ere the snow-veiled dawn, the bird of morn
His wings quick claps, and sounds his cheering call:
The cottage hinds the glimmering lantern trim,
And to the barn wade, sinking, in the drift;
The alternate flails bounce from the loosened sheaf.
Pleasant these sounds! they sleep to slumber change;
Pleasant to him, whom no laborious task
Whispers, arise!—whom neither love of gain,
Nor love of power, nor hopes, nor fears, disturb.
His wings quick claps, and sounds his cheering call:
The cottage hinds the glimmering lantern trim,
And to the barn wade, sinking, in the drift;
The alternate flails bounce from the loosened sheaf.
Pleasant these sounds! they sleep to slumber change;
Pleasant to him, whom no laborious task
Whispers, arise!—whom neither love of gain,
Nor love of power, nor hopes, nor fears, disturb.
Late daylight comes at last, and the strained eye
Shrinks from the dazzling brightness of the scene,—
One wide expanse of whiteness uniform.
As yet no wandering footstep has defaced
The spotless plain, save where some wounded hare,
Wrenched from the springe, has left a blood-stained track.
How smooth are all the fields! sunk every fence;
The furrow, here and there, heaped to a ridge,
O'er which the sidelong plough-shaft scarcely peers.
Shrinks from the dazzling brightness of the scene,—
One wide expanse of whiteness uniform.
As yet no wandering footstep has defaced
The spotless plain, save where some wounded hare,
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How smooth are all the fields! sunk every fence;
The furrow, here and there, heaped to a ridge,
O'er which the sidelong plough-shaft scarcely peers.
Cold blows the north-wind o'er the dreary waste.—
O ye that shiver by your blazing fires,
Think of the inmates of you hut, half sunk
Beneath the drift: from it no smoke ascends;
The broken straw-filled pane excludes the light,
But ill excludes the blast: The redbreast there
For shelter seeks, but short, ah! very short
His stay; no crumbs, strewn careless on the floor,
Attract his wistful glance;—to warmer roofs
He flies; a welcome, soon a fearless guest,
He cheers the winter day with summer songs.
O ye that shiver by your blazing fires,
Think of the inmates of you hut, half sunk
Beneath the drift: from it no smoke ascends;
The broken straw-filled pane excludes the light,
But ill excludes the blast: The redbreast there
For shelter seeks, but short, ah! very short
His stay; no crumbs, strewn careless on the floor,
Attract his wistful glance;—to warmer roofs
He flies; a welcome, soon a fearless guest,
He cheers the winter day with summer songs.
Short is the reign of day, tedious the night.
The city's distant lights arrest my view,
And magic fancy whirls me to the scene.
There vice and folly run their giddy rounds;
There eager crowds are hurrying to the sight
Of feigned distress, yet have not time to hear
The shivering orphan's prayer. The flaring lamps
Of gilded chariots, like the meteor eyes
Of mighty giants, famed in legends old,
Illume the snowy street; the silent wheels
On heedless passenger steal unperceived,
Bearing the splendid fair to flutter round
Amid the flowery labyrinths of the dance.
But, hark! the merry catch: good social souls
Sing on, and drown dull care in bumpers deep;
The bell, snow-muffled, warns not of the hour;
For scarce the sentenced felon's watchful ear
Can catch the softened knell, by which he sums
The hours he has to live. Poor hopeless wretch!
His thoughts are horror, and his dreams despair;
And ever as he, on his strawy couch,
Turns heavily, his chains and fetters, grating,
Awake the inmates of some neighbouring cell,
Who bless their lot, that debt is all their crime.
The city's distant lights arrest my view,
And magic fancy whirls me to the scene.
There vice and folly run their giddy rounds;
There eager crowds are hurrying to the sight
Of feigned distress, yet have not time to hear
The shivering orphan's prayer. The flaring lamps
Of gilded chariots, like the meteor eyes
Of mighty giants, famed in legends old,
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On heedless passenger steal unperceived,
Bearing the splendid fair to flutter round
Amid the flowery labyrinths of the dance.
But, hark! the merry catch: good social souls
Sing on, and drown dull care in bumpers deep;
The bell, snow-muffled, warns not of the hour;
For scarce the sentenced felon's watchful ear
Can catch the softened knell, by which he sums
The hours he has to live. Poor hopeless wretch!
His thoughts are horror, and his dreams despair;
And ever as he, on his strawy couch,
Turns heavily, his chains and fetters, grating,
Awake the inmates of some neighbouring cell,
Who bless their lot, that debt is all their crime.
94
FEBRUARY.
The treacherous fowler, in the drifted wreath,
The snare conceals, and strews the husky lure,
Tempting the famished fowls of heaven to light:
They light; the captive strives in vain to fly,
Scattering around, with fluttering wing, the snow.
Amid the untrod snows, oft let me roam
Far up the lonely glen, and mark its change;
The frozen rill's hoarse murmur scarce is heard;
The rocky cleft, the fairy bourne smoothed up,
Repeat no more my solitary voice.
The snare conceals, and strews the husky lure,
Tempting the famished fowls of heaven to light:
They light; the captive strives in vain to fly,
Scattering around, with fluttering wing, the snow.
Amid the untrod snows, oft let me roam
Far up the lonely glen, and mark its change;
The frozen rill's hoarse murmur scarce is heard;
The rocky cleft, the fairy bourne smoothed up,
Repeat no more my solitary voice.
Now to the icy plain the city swarms.
In giddy circles, whirling variously,
The skater fleetly thrids the mazy throng,
While smaller wights the sliding pastime ply.
Unhappy he, of poverty the child!
Who, barefoot, standing, eyes his merry mates,
And, shivering, weeps, not for the biting cold,
But that he cannot join their slippery sport.
In giddy circles, whirling variously,
The skater fleetly thrids the mazy throng,
While smaller wights the sliding pastime ply.
Unhappy he, of poverty the child!
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And, shivering, weeps, not for the biting cold,
But that he cannot join their slippery sport.
Trust not incautiously the smooth expanse;
For oft a treacherous thaw, ere yet perceived,
Saps by degrees the solid-seeming mass:
At last the long piled mountain snows dissolve,
Bursting the roaring river's brittle bonds;
The shattered fragments down the cataract shoot,
And, sinking in the boiling deep below,
At distance re-appear, then sweep along,
Marking their height upon the half-sunk trees.
For oft a treacherous thaw, ere yet perceived,
Saps by degrees the solid-seeming mass:
At last the long piled mountain snows dissolve,
Bursting the roaring river's brittle bonds;
The shattered fragments down the cataract shoot,
And, sinking in the boiling deep below,
At distance re-appear, then sweep along,
Marking their height upon the half-sunk trees.
No more the ploughman hurls the sounding quoit;
The loosened glebe demands the rusted share,
And slow the toiling team plods o'er the field.
But oft, ere half the winding task be done,
Returning frost again usurps the year,
Fixing the ploughshare in the unfinished fur;
And still, at times, the flaky shower descends,
Whitening the plain, save where the wheaten blade
Peering, uplifts its green and hardy head,
As if just springing from a soil of snow.
The loosened glebe demands the rusted share,
And slow the toiling team plods o'er the field.
But oft, ere half the winding task be done,
Returning frost again usurps the year,
Fixing the ploughshare in the unfinished fur;
And still, at times, the flaky shower descends,
Whitening the plain, save where the wheaten blade
Peering, uplifts its green and hardy head,
As if just springing from a soil of snow.
While yet the night is long, and drear, and chill,
Soon as the slanting sun has sunk from view,
The sounding anvil cheerily invites
The weary hind to leave his twinkling fire,
And bask himself before the furnace glare;
Where, blest with unbought mirth, the rustic ring,
Their faces tinted by the yellow blaze,
Beguile the hours, nor envy rooms of state.
Soon as the slanting sun has sunk from view,
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The weary hind to leave his twinkling fire,
And bask himself before the furnace glare;
Where, blest with unbought mirth, the rustic ring,
Their faces tinted by the yellow blaze,
Beguile the hours, nor envy rooms of state.
97
MARCH.
The ravaged fields, waste, colourless, and bleak,
Retreating Winter leaves, with angry frown,
And lingering on the distant snow-streaked hills,
Displays the motley remnants of his reign.
Retreating Winter leaves, with angry frown,
And lingering on the distant snow-streaked hills,
Displays the motley remnants of his reign.
With shouldered spade, the labourer to the field
Hies, joyful that the softened glebe gives leave
To toil; no more his children cry for bread,
Or, shivering, crowd around the scanty fire;
No more he's doomed, reluctant, to receive
The pittance, which the rich man proudly gives,
Who, when he gives, thinks heaven itself obliged.
Vain man! think not there's merit in the boon,
If, quitting not one comfort, not one joy,
The sparkling wine still circles round thy board,
Thy hearth still blazes, and the sounding strings,
Blent with the voice symphonious, charm thine ear.
Hies, joyful that the softened glebe gives leave
To toil; no more his children cry for bread,
Or, shivering, crowd around the scanty fire;
No more he's doomed, reluctant, to receive
The pittance, which the rich man proudly gives,
Who, when he gives, thinks heaven itself obliged.
Vain man! think not there's merit in the boon,
If, quitting not one comfort, not one joy,
The sparkling wine still circles round thy board,
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Blent with the voice symphonious, charm thine ear.
The redbreast now, at morn, resumes his song,
And larks, high soaring, wing their spiral flight,
While the light-hearted ploughboy singing, blythe,
The broom, the bonny broom of Cowdenknows,
Fills with delight the wandering townsman's ear;
May be, though carolled rude in artless guise,
Sad Flodden field, of Scotia's lays most sweet,
Most mournful, dims, with starting tear, his eye.
Nor silent are the upland leas; cheerily
The partridge now her tuneless call repeats,
Or, bursting unexpected from the brake,
Startles the milkmaid singing o'er the ridge.
Nor silent are the chilly leafless woods;
The thrush's note is heard amid the grove,
Soon as the primrose, from the withered leaves
Smiling, looks out: Rash floweret! oft betrayed,
By summer-seeming days, to venture forth
Thy tender form,—the killing northern blast,
Will wrap thee lifeless in a hoar-frost shroud.
And larks, high soaring, wing their spiral flight,
While the light-hearted ploughboy singing, blythe,
The broom, the bonny broom of Cowdenknows,
Fills with delight the wandering townsman's ear;
May be, though carolled rude in artless guise,
Sad Flodden field, of Scotia's lays most sweet,
Most mournful, dims, with starting tear, his eye.
Nor silent are the upland leas; cheerily
The partridge now her tuneless call repeats,
Or, bursting unexpected from the brake,
Startles the milkmaid singing o'er the ridge.
Nor silent are the chilly leafless woods;
The thrush's note is heard amid the grove,
Soon as the primrose, from the withered leaves
Smiling, looks out: Rash floweret! oft betrayed,
By summer-seeming days, to venture forth
Thy tender form,—the killing northern blast,
Will wrap thee lifeless in a hoar-frost shroud.
99
APRIL.
Descend, sweet April, from yon watery bow,
And, liberal, strew the ground with budding flowers,
With leafless crocus, leaf-veiled violet,
Auricula, with powdered cup, primrose
That loves to lurk below the hawthorn shade.
At thy approach health re-illumes the eye:
Even pale Consumption, from thy balmy breath,
Inhales delusive hope; and, dreaming still
Of length of days, basks in some sunny plat,
And decks her half-foreboding breast with flowers,—
With flowers, which else would have survived the hand
By which they're pulled. But they will bloom again:
The daisy, spreading on the greensward grave,
Fades, dies, and seems to perish, yet revives.
Shall man for ever sleep? Cruel the tongue,
That, with sophistic art, snatches from pain,
Diseas, and grief and want, that antidote,
Which makes the wretched smile, the hopeless hope.
And, liberal, strew the ground with budding flowers,
With leafless crocus, leaf-veiled violet,
Auricula, with powdered cup, primrose
That loves to lurk below the hawthorn shade.
At thy approach health re-illumes the eye:
Even pale Consumption, from thy balmy breath,
Inhales delusive hope; and, dreaming still
Of length of days, basks in some sunny plat,
And decks her half-foreboding breast with flowers,—
With flowers, which else would have survived the hand
By which they're pulled. But they will bloom again:
The daisy, spreading on the greensward grave,
Fades, dies, and seems to perish, yet revives.
Shall man for ever sleep? Cruel the tongue,
100
Diseas, and grief and want, that antidote,
Which makes the wretched smile, the hopeless hope.
Light now the western gale sweeps o'er the plain;
Gently it waves the rivulet's cascade;
Gently it parts the lock on beauty's brow,
And lifts the tresses from the snowy neck,
And bends the flowers, and makes the lily stoop,
As if to kiss its image in the wave;
Or curls, with softest breath, the glassy pool,
Aiding the treachery of the mimic fly;
While, warily, behind the half-leaved bush,
The angler screened, with keenest eye intent,
Awaits the sudden rising of the trout:
Down dips the feathery lure; the quivering rod
Bends low; in vain the cheated captive strives
To break the yielding line; exhausted soon,
Ashore he's drawn, and, on the mossy bank
Weltering, he dyes the primrose with his blood.
Gently it waves the rivulet's cascade;
Gently it parts the lock on beauty's brow,
And lifts the tresses from the snowy neck,
And bends the flowers, and makes the lily stoop,
As if to kiss its image in the wave;
Or curls, with softest breath, the glassy pool,
Aiding the treachery of the mimic fly;
While, warily, behind the half-leaved bush,
The angler screened, with keenest eye intent,
Awaits the sudden rising of the trout:
Down dips the feathery lure; the quivering rod
Bends low; in vain the cheated captive strives
To break the yielding line; exhausted soon,
Ashore he's drawn, and, on the mossy bank
Weltering, he dyes the primrose with his blood.
101
MAY.
On blythe May morning, when the lark's first note
Ascends, on viewless wing, veiled in the mist,
The village maids then hie them to the woods,
To kiss the fresh dew from the daisy's brim;
Wandering in misty glades they lose their way,
And, ere aware, meet in their lovers' arms,
Like joining dew-drops on the blushing rose.
Ascends, on viewless wing, veiled in the mist,
The village maids then hie them to the woods,
To kiss the fresh dew from the daisy's brim;
Wandering in misty glades they lose their way,
And, ere aware, meet in their lovers' arms,
Like joining dew-drops on the blushing rose.
Sweet month! thy locks with bursting buds bedecked,
With opening hyacinths, and hawthorn blooms,
Fair still thou art, though showers bedim thine eye;
The cloud soon quits thy brow, and, mild, the sun
Looks out with watery beam, looks out, and smiles.
With opening hyacinths, and hawthorn blooms,
Fair still thou art, though showers bedim thine eye;
The cloud soon quits thy brow, and, mild, the sun
Looks out with watery beam, looks out, and smiles.
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Now, from the wild flower bank, the little bird
Picks the soft moss, and to the thicket flies;
And oft returns, and oft the work renews,
Till all the curious fabric hangs complete:
Alas! but ill concealed from schoolboy's eye,
Who, heedless of the warbler's saddest plaint,
Tears from the bush the toil of many an hour;
Then, thoughtless wretch! pursues the devious bee,
Buzzing from flower to flower: She wings her flight,
Far from his following eye, to walled parterres,
Where, undisturbed, she revels 'mid the beds
Of full-blown lilies, doomed to die unculled,
Save when the stooping fair (more beauteous flower!)
The bosom's rival brightness half betrays,
While chusing 'mong the gently bending stalks,
The snowy hand a sister blossom seems.
Picks the soft moss, and to the thicket flies;
And oft returns, and oft the work renews,
Till all the curious fabric hangs complete:
Alas! but ill concealed from schoolboy's eye,
Who, heedless of the warbler's saddest plaint,
Tears from the bush the toil of many an hour;
Then, thoughtless wretch! pursues the devious bee,
Buzzing from flower to flower: She wings her flight,
Far from his following eye, to walled parterres,
Where, undisturbed, she revels 'mid the beds
Of full-blown lilies, doomed to die unculled,
Save when the stooping fair (more beauteous flower!)
The bosom's rival brightness half betrays,
While chusing 'mong the gently bending stalks,
The snowy hand a sister blossom seems.
More sweet to me the lily's meekened grace
Than gaudy hues, brilliant as summer clouds
Around the sinking sun: to me more sweet
Than garish day, the twilight's softened grace,
When deepening shades obscure the dusky woods;
Then comes the silence of the dewy hour,
With songs of noontide birds, thrilling in fancy's ear,
While from yon elm, with water-kissing boughs,
Along the moveless winding of the brook,
The smooth expanse is calmness, stillness all,
Unless the springing trout, with quick replunge,
Arousing meditation's downward look,
Ruffle, with many a gently circling wave
On wave, the glassy surface undulating far.
Than gaudy hues, brilliant as summer clouds
Around the sinking sun: to me more sweet
Than garish day, the twilight's softened grace,
When deepening shades obscure the dusky woods;
Then comes the silence of the dewy hour,
With songs of noontide birds, thrilling in fancy's ear,
While from yon elm, with water-kissing boughs,
Along the moveless winding of the brook,
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Unless the springing trout, with quick replunge,
Arousing meditation's downward look,
Ruffle, with many a gently circling wave
On wave, the glassy surface undulating far.
104
JUNE.
Short is the reign of night, and almost blends
The evening twilight with the morning dawn.
Mild hour of dawn! thy wide-spread solitude,
And placid stillness, sooth even misery's sigh:
Deep the distress that cannot feel thy charm!—
As yet the thrush roosts on the bloomy spray,
With head beneath his dew-besprinkled wing,
When, roused by my lone tread, he lightly shakes
His ruffling plumes, and chaunts the untaught note,
Soon followed by the woodland choir, warbling
Melodiously the oft-repeated song,
Till noon-tide pour the torpor-shedding ray.
Then is the hour to seek the sylvan bank
Of lonely stream, remote from human haunt;
To mark the wild bee voyaging, deep-toned,
Low weighing down each floweret's tender stalk;
To list the grashopper's hoarse creaking chirp;
And then to let excursive fancy fly
To scenes, where roaring cannon drown the straining voice,
And fierce gesticulation takes the place
Of useless words. May be some Alpine brook,
That served to part two neighbouring shepherds' flocks,
Is now the limit of two hostile camps.
Weak limit! to be filled, ere evening star,
With heaps of slain: Far down thy rocky course,
The midnight wolf, lapping the gore-stained flood,
Gluts his keen thirst, and oft, and oft returns,
Unsated, to the purple, tepid stream.
The evening twilight with the morning dawn.
Mild hour of dawn! thy wide-spread solitude,
And placid stillness, sooth even misery's sigh:
Deep the distress that cannot feel thy charm!—
As yet the thrush roosts on the bloomy spray,
With head beneath his dew-besprinkled wing,
When, roused by my lone tread, he lightly shakes
His ruffling plumes, and chaunts the untaught note,
Soon followed by the woodland choir, warbling
Melodiously the oft-repeated song,
Till noon-tide pour the torpor-shedding ray.
Then is the hour to seek the sylvan bank
Of lonely stream, remote from human haunt;
To mark the wild bee voyaging, deep-toned,
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To list the grashopper's hoarse creaking chirp;
And then to let excursive fancy fly
To scenes, where roaring cannon drown the straining voice,
And fierce gesticulation takes the place
Of useless words. May be some Alpine brook,
That served to part two neighbouring shepherds' flocks,
Is now the limit of two hostile camps.
Weak limit! to be filled, ere evening star,
With heaps of slain: Far down thy rocky course,
The midnight wolf, lapping the gore-stained flood,
Gluts his keen thirst, and oft, and oft returns,
Unsated, to the purple, tepid stream.
But let me fly such scenes, which, even when feigned,
Distress. To Scotia's peaceful glens I turn,
And rest my eyes upon her waving fields,
Where now the scythe lays low the mingled flowers.
Ah, spare, thou pitying swain! a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest; so shall no new-come lord—
To ope a vista to some distant spire—
Thy cottage raze; but, when the toilsome day
Is done, still shall the turf-laid seat invite
Thy weary limbs; there peace and health shall bless
Thy frugal fare, served by the unhired hand,
That seeks no wages save a parent's smile.
Thus glides the eve, while round the strawy roof
Is heard the bat's wing in the deep-hushed air,
And from the little field the corncraik's harsh,
Yet not unpleasing note, the stillness breaks,
All the night long, till day-spring wake the lark.
Distress. To Scotia's peaceful glens I turn,
And rest my eyes upon her waving fields,
Where now the scythe lays low the mingled flowers.
Ah, spare, thou pitying swain! a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest; so shall no new-come lord—
To ope a vista to some distant spire—
Thy cottage raze; but, when the toilsome day
Is done, still shall the turf-laid seat invite
Thy weary limbs; there peace and health shall bless
Thy frugal fare, served by the unhired hand,
That seeks no wages save a parent's smile.
106
Is heard the bat's wing in the deep-hushed air,
And from the little field the corncraik's harsh,
Yet not unpleasing note, the stillness breaks,
All the night long, till day-spring wake the lark.
107
JULY.
Slow move the sultry hours. O, for the shield
Of darkening boughs, or hollow rock grotesque!
Of darkening boughs, or hollow rock grotesque!
The pool transparent to its pebbly bed,
With here and there a slowly gliding trout,
Invites the throbbing, half reluctant, breast
To plunge: The dash re-echoes from the rocks,
And smooth, in sinuous course, the swimmer winds,
Now, with extended arms, rowing his way;
And now, with sunward face, he floating lies;
Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns,
Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon
With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand:
Blythe days of jocund youth, now almost flown!
Meantime, far up the windings of the stream,
Where birken witchknots o'er the channel meet,
The sportive shriek, shrill, mingled with the laugh,
The bushes hung with beauty's white attire,
Tempt, yet forbid, the intrusive eye's approach.
With here and there a slowly gliding trout,
Invites the throbbing, half reluctant, breast
To plunge: The dash re-echoes from the rocks,
And smooth, in sinuous course, the swimmer winds,
Now, with extended arms, rowing his way;
And now, with sunward face, he floating lies;
Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns,
Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon
With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand:
Blythe days of jocund youth, now almost flown!
Meantime, far up the windings of the stream,
Where birken witchknots o'er the channel meet,
The sportive shriek, shrill, mingled with the laugh,
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Tempt, yet forbid, the intrusive eye's approach.
Unhappy he, who, in this season, pent
Within the darksome gloom of city lane,
Pines for the flowery paths, and woody shades,
From which the love of lucre, or of power,
Enticed his youthful steps. In vain he turns
The rich descriptive page of Thomson's muse,
And strives to fancy that the lovely scenes
Are present: So the hand of childhood tries
To grasp the pictured bunch of fruit, or flowers,
But, disappointed, feels the canvas smooth:
So the caged lark, upon a withering turf,
Flutters from side to side, with quivering wings,
As if in act of mounting to the skies.
Within the darksome gloom of city lane,
Pines for the flowery paths, and woody shades,
From which the love of lucre, or of power,
Enticed his youthful steps. In vain he turns
The rich descriptive page of Thomson's muse,
And strives to fancy that the lovely scenes
Are present: So the hand of childhood tries
To grasp the pictured bunch of fruit, or flowers,
But, disappointed, feels the canvas smooth:
So the caged lark, upon a withering turf,
Flutters from side to side, with quivering wings,
As if in act of mounting to the skies.
At noontide hour, from school, the little throng
Rush gaily, sporting o'er the enamelled mead.
Some strive to catch the bloom-perched butterfly;
And if they miss his mealy wings, the flower,
From which he flies, the disappointment sooths.
Others, so pale in look, in tattered garb,
Motley, with half-spun threads and cotton flakes,
Trudge, drooping, to the many-storied pile,
Where thousand spindles whirling stun the ear,
Confused: There, prisoned close, they wretched moil.
Sweet age, perverted from its proper end!
When childhood toils, the field should be the scene,—
To tend the sheep, or homeward drive the herd
Or, from the corn-ridge, scare the pilfering rooks,
Or to the mowers bear the milky pail.
But, Commerce, Commerce, Manufactures, still
Weary the ear; health, morals, all must yield
To pamper the monopolising few,
To make a wealthy, but a wretched state.
Blest be the generous band, that would restore
To honour due the long-neglected plough!
From it expect peace, plenty, virtue, health:
Compare with it, Britannia, all thine isles
Beyond the Atlantic wave! thy trade! thy ships
Deep-fraught with blood!
Rush gaily, sporting o'er the enamelled mead.
Some strive to catch the bloom-perched butterfly;
And if they miss his mealy wings, the flower,
From which he flies, the disappointment sooths.
Others, so pale in look, in tattered garb,
Motley, with half-spun threads and cotton flakes,
Trudge, drooping, to the many-storied pile,
Where thousand spindles whirling stun the ear,
Confused: There, prisoned close, they wretched moil.
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When childhood toils, the field should be the scene,—
To tend the sheep, or homeward drive the herd
Or, from the corn-ridge, scare the pilfering rooks,
Or to the mowers bear the milky pail.
But, Commerce, Commerce, Manufactures, still
Weary the ear; health, morals, all must yield
To pamper the monopolising few,
To make a wealthy, but a wretched state.
Blest be the generous band, that would restore
To honour due the long-neglected plough!
From it expect peace, plenty, virtue, health:
Compare with it, Britannia, all thine isles
Beyond the Atlantic wave! thy trade! thy ships
Deep-fraught with blood!
But let me quit such themes! and, peaceful, roam
The winding glen, where now the wild-rose pale
And garish broom, strew, with their fading flowers,
The narrow greenwood path. To me more sweet
The greenwood path, half hid, 'neath brake and briar,
Than pebbled walks so trim; more dear to me
The daisied plat, before the cottage door,
Than waveless sea of widely spreading lawn,
'Mid which some insulated mansion towers,
Spurning the humble dwellings from its proud domain.
The winding glen, where now the wild-rose pale
And garish broom, strew, with their fading flowers,
The narrow greenwood path. To me more sweet
The greenwood path, half hid, 'neath brake and briar,
Than pebbled walks so trim; more dear to me
The daisied plat, before the cottage door,
Than waveless sea of widely spreading lawn,
'Mid which some insulated mansion towers,
Spurning the humble dwellings from its proud domain.
110
AUGUST.
Farewell, sweet summer, and thy fading flowers!
Farewell, sweet summer, and thy woodland songs!
No woodland note is heard, save where the hawk,
High from her eyry, skims in circling flight,
With all her clamorous young, first venturing forth
On untried wing: At distance far, the sound
Alarms the barn-door flock; the fearful dam
Calls in her brood beneath her ruffling plumes;
With crowding feet they stand, and frequent peep
Through the half-opened wing. The partridge quakes
Among the rustling corn. Ye gentle tribes,
Think not your deadliest foe is now at hand.
To man, bird, beast, man is the deadliest foe;
'Tis he who wages universal war.
Soon as his murderous law gives leave to wound
The heathfowl, dweller on the mountain wild,
The sportsman, anxious, watching for the dawn,
Lies turning, while his dog, in happy dreams,
With feeble bark anticipates the day.
Some, ere the dawn steals o'er the deep blue lake,
The hill ascend: vain is their eager haste,—
The dog's quick breath is heard panting around,
But neither dog, nor springing game, is seen
Amid the floating mist; short interval
Of respite to the trembling dewy wing.
Ah, many a bleeding wing, ere mid-day hour,
Shall vainly flap the purple bending heath.—
Fatigued, at noon, the spoiler seeks the shade
Of some lone oak, fast by the rocky stream,—
The hunter's rest, in days of other years,
When sad the voice of Cona, in the gale,
Lamentingly the song of Selma sung.
Farewell, sweet summer, and thy woodland songs!
No woodland note is heard, save where the hawk,
High from her eyry, skims in circling flight,
With all her clamorous young, first venturing forth
On untried wing: At distance far, the sound
Alarms the barn-door flock; the fearful dam
Calls in her brood beneath her ruffling plumes;
With crowding feet they stand, and frequent peep
Through the half-opened wing. The partridge quakes
Among the rustling corn. Ye gentle tribes,
Think not your deadliest foe is now at hand.
To man, bird, beast, man is the deadliest foe;
'Tis he who wages universal war.
Soon as his murderous law gives leave to wound
111
The sportsman, anxious, watching for the dawn,
Lies turning, while his dog, in happy dreams,
With feeble bark anticipates the day.
Some, ere the dawn steals o'er the deep blue lake,
The hill ascend: vain is their eager haste,—
The dog's quick breath is heard panting around,
But neither dog, nor springing game, is seen
Amid the floating mist; short interval
Of respite to the trembling dewy wing.
Ah, many a bleeding wing, ere mid-day hour,
Shall vainly flap the purple bending heath.—
Fatigued, at noon, the spoiler seeks the shade
Of some lone oak, fast by the rocky stream,—
The hunter's rest, in days of other years,
When sad the voice of Cona, in the gale,
Lamentingly the song of Selma sung.
How changeful, Caledonia, is thy clime!
Where is the sun-beam that but now so bright
Played on the dimpling brook? Dark o'er the heath
A deepening gloom is hung; from clouds, high piled
On clouds, glances the sudden flash; the thunder,
Reverberated 'mong the cliffs, rolls far;
Nor pause; but ere the echo of one peal
Has ceased, another, louder still, the ear appals.
The sporting lamb hastes to its mother's side;
The shepherd stoops into the mountain-cave,
At every momentary flash illumed
Back to its innermost recess, where gleams
The vaulted spar; the eagle, sudden smote,
Falls to the ground lifeless; beneath the wave
The sea-fowl plunges; fast the rain descends;
The whitened streams, from every mountain side,
Rush to the valley, tinging far the lake.
Where is the sun-beam that but now so bright
Played on the dimpling brook? Dark o'er the heath
A deepening gloom is hung; from clouds, high piled
On clouds, glances the sudden flash; the thunder,
Reverberated 'mong the cliffs, rolls far;
Nor pause; but ere the echo of one peal
Has ceased, another, louder still, the ear appals.
The sporting lamb hastes to its mother's side;
112
At every momentary flash illumed
Back to its innermost recess, where gleams
The vaulted spar; the eagle, sudden smote,
Falls to the ground lifeless; beneath the wave
The sea-fowl plunges; fast the rain descends;
The whitened streams, from every mountain side,
Rush to the valley, tinging far the lake.
113
SEPTEMBER.
Gradual the woods their varied tints assume;
The hawthorn reddens, and the rowan-tree
Displays its ruby clusters, seeming sweet,
Yet harsh, disfiguring the fairest face.
The hawthorn reddens, and the rowan-tree
Displays its ruby clusters, seeming sweet,
Yet harsh, disfiguring the fairest face.
At sultry hour of noon, the reaper band
Rest from their toil, and in the lusty stook
Their sickless hang. Around their simple fare,
Upon the stubble spread, blythesome they form
A circling groupe, while humbly waits behind
The wistful dog, and with expressive look,
And pawing foot, implores his little share.
Rest from their toil, and in the lusty stook
Their sickless hang. Around their simple fare,
Upon the stubble spread, blythesome they form
A circling groupe, while humbly waits behind
The wistful dog, and with expressive look,
And pawing foot, implores his little share.
The short repast, seasoned with simple mirth,
And not without the song, gives place to sleep.
With sheaf beneath his head, the rustic youth
Enjoys sweet slumbers, while the maid he loves
Steals to his side, and screens him from the sun.
And not without the song, gives place to sleep.
114
Enjoys sweet slumbers, while the maid he loves
Steals to his side, and screens him from the sun.
But not by day alone the reapers toil:
Oft in the moon's pale ray the sickle gleams,
And heaps the dewy sheaf;—thy changeful sky,
Poor Scotland, warns to seize the hour serene.
Oft in the moon's pale ray the sickle gleams,
And heaps the dewy sheaf;—thy changeful sky,
Poor Scotland, warns to seize the hour serene.
The gleaners, wandering with the morning ray,
Spread o'er the new-reaped field. Tottering old age,
And lisping infancy, are there, and she
Who better days has seen.—
No shelter now
The covey finds; but, hark! the murderous tube.
Exultingly the deep-mouthed spaniel bears
The fluttering victim to his master's foot:
Perhaps another, wounded, flying far,
Eludes the eager following eye, and drops
Among the lonely furze, to pine and die.
Spread o'er the new-reaped field. Tottering old age,
And lisping infancy, are there, and she
Who better days has seen.—
No shelter now
The covey finds; but, hark! the murderous tube.
Exultingly the deep-mouthed spaniel bears
The fluttering victim to his master's foot:
Perhaps another, wounded, flying far,
Eludes the eager following eye, and drops
Among the lonely furze, to pine and die.
115
OCTOBER.
With hound and horn, o'er moor, and hill, and dale,
The chace sweeps on; no obstacle they heed,
Nor hedge, nor ditch, nor wood, nor river wide.
The clamorous pack rush rapid down the vale,
Whilst o'er yon brushwood tops, at times, are seen
The moving branches of the victim stag:
Soon far beyond he stretches o'er the plain.
O, may he safe elude the savage rout,
And may the woods be left to peace again!
The chace sweeps on; no obstacle they heed,
Nor hedge, nor ditch, nor wood, nor river wide.
The clamorous pack rush rapid down the vale,
Whilst o'er yon brushwood tops, at times, are seen
The moving branches of the victim stag:
Soon far beyond he stretches o'er the plain.
O, may he safe elude the savage rout,
And may the woods be left to peace again!
Hushed are the faded woods; no song is heard,
Save where the redbreast mourns the falling leaf.
At close of shortened day, the reaper, tired,
With sickle on his shoulder, homeward hies.
Night comes with threatening storm, first whispering low,
Sighing amid the boughs; then, by degrees,
With violence redoubled at each pause,
Furious it rages, scaring startled sleep.
The river roars. Long-wished, at last, the dawn,
Doubtful, peeps unsullied with a tear;
Lights on the eyes unsullied with a tear;
Nor flies, but at the plough-boy's whistle gay,
Or hunter's horn, or sound of hedger's bill.
Placid the sun shoots through the half-stript grove;
The grove's sere leaves float down the dusky flood.
Save where the redbreast mourns the falling leaf.
At close of shortened day, the reaper, tired,
With sickle on his shoulder, homeward hies.
Night comes with threatening storm, first whispering low,
116
With violence redoubled at each pause,
Furious it rages, scaring startled sleep.
The river roars. Long-wished, at last, the dawn,
Doubtful, peeps unsullied with a tear;
Lights on the eyes unsullied with a tear;
Nor flies, but at the plough-boy's whistle gay,
Or hunter's horn, or sound of hedger's bill.
Placid the sun shoots through the half-stript grove;
The grove's sere leaves float down the dusky flood.
The happy schoolboy, whom the swollen streams,
Perilous to wight so small, give holiday,
Forth roaming, now wild berries pulls, now paints,
Artless, his rosy cheek with purple hue;
Now wonders that the nest, hung in the leafless thorn,
So full in view, escaped erewhile his search;
On tiptoe raised,—ah, disappointment dire!
His eager hand finds nought but withered leaves.
Perilous to wight so small, give holiday,
Forth roaming, now wild berries pulls, now paints,
Artless, his rosy cheek with purple hue;
Now wonders that the nest, hung in the leafless thorn,
So full in view, escaped erewhile his search;
On tiptoe raised,—ah, disappointment dire!
His eager hand finds nought but withered leaves.
Night comes again; the cloudless canopy
Is one bright arch,—myriads, myriads of stars.
To him who wanders 'mong the silent woods,
The twinkling orbs beam through the leafless boughs,
Which erst excluded the meridian ray.
Is one bright arch,—myriads, myriads of stars.
To him who wanders 'mong the silent woods,
The twinkling orbs beam through the leafless boughs,
Which erst excluded the meridian ray.
117
NOVEMBER.
Languid the morning beam slants o'er the lea;
The hoary grass, crisp, crackles 'neath the tread.
The hoary grass, crisp, crackles 'neath the tread.
On the haw-clustered thorns, a motley flock
Of birds, of various plume, and various note,
Discordant chirp; the linnet, and the thrush
With speckled breast, the blackbird yellow-beaked,
The goldfinch, fieldfare, with the sparrow, pert
And clamorous above his shivering mates,
While, on the house-top, faint the redbreast plains.
Of birds, of various plume, and various note,
Discordant chirp; the linnet, and the thrush
With speckled breast, the blackbird yellow-beaked,
The goldfinch, fieldfare, with the sparrow, pert
And clamorous above his shivering mates,
While, on the house-top, faint the redbreast plains.
Where do ye lurk, ye houseless commoners,
When bleak November's sun is overcast;
When sweeps the blast fierce through the deepest groves,
Driving the fallen leaves in whirling wreaths;
When scarce the raven keeps her bending perch;
When dashing cataracts are backward blown?
When bleak November's sun is overcast;
When sweeps the blast fierce through the deepest groves,
Driving the fallen leaves in whirling wreaths;
118
When dashing cataracts are backward blown?
A deluge pours; loud comes the river down:
The margin trees now insulated seem,
As if they in the midway current grew.
Oft let me stand upon the giddy brink,
And chace, with following gaze, the whirling foam,
Or woodland wreck: Ah me, that broken branch,
Sweeping along, may tempt some heedless boy,
Sent by his needy parents to the woods
For brushwood gleanings for their evening fire,
To stretch too far his little arm!—he falls,
He sinks. Long is he looked for, oft he's called;
His homeward whistle oft is fancied near:
His playmates find him on the oozy bank,
And, in his stiffened grasp, the fatal branch.
The margin trees now insulated seem,
As if they in the midway current grew.
Oft let me stand upon the giddy brink,
And chace, with following gaze, the whirling foam,
Or woodland wreck: Ah me, that broken branch,
Sweeping along, may tempt some heedless boy,
Sent by his needy parents to the woods
For brushwood gleanings for their evening fire,
To stretch too far his little arm!—he falls,
He sinks. Long is he looked for, oft he's called;
His homeward whistle oft is fancied near:
His playmates find him on the oozy bank,
And, in his stiffened grasp, the fatal branch.
Short is the day; dreary the boisterous night:
At intervals the moon gleams through the clouds,
And, now and then, a star is dimly seen.
At intervals the moon gleams through the clouds,
And, now and then, a star is dimly seen.
When daylight breaks, the woodman leaves his hut,
And oft the axe's echoing stroke is heard;
At last the yielding oak's loud crash resounds,
Crushing the humble hawthorn in its fall.
The husbandman slow plods from ridge to ridge,
Disheartened, and rebuilds his prostrate sheaves.
And oft the axe's echoing stroke is heard;
At last the yielding oak's loud crash resounds,
Crushing the humble hawthorn in its fall.
The husbandman slow plods from ridge to ridge,
Disheartened, and rebuilds his prostrate sheaves.
119
DECEMBER.
Where late the wild flower bloomed, the brown leaf lies;
Not even the snow-drop cheers the dreary plain:
The famished birds forsake each leafless spray,
And flock around the barn-yard's winnowing store.
Not even the snow-drop cheers the dreary plain:
The famished birds forsake each leafless spray,
And flock around the barn-yard's winnowing store.
Season of social mirth! of fireside joys!
I love thy shortened day, when, at its close,
The blazing tapers, on the jovial board,
Dispense o'er every care-forgetting face
Their cheering light, and harmless mirth abounds.
Now far be banished, from our social ring,
The party wrangle fierce, the argument
Deep, learned, metaphysical, and dull,
Oft dropt, as oft again renewed, endless:
Rather I'd hear stories twice ten times told,
Or vapid joke, filched from Joe Miller's page,
Or tale of ghost, hobgoblin dire, or witch;
Nor would I, with a proud fastidious frown,
Proscribe the laugh-provoking pun; absurd
Although it be, and hard to be discerned,
It serves the purpose, if it shake our sides.
Now let the temperate cup inspire the song,
The catch, the glee; or list! the melting lays
Of Scotia's pastoral vales,—they ever please.
I love thy shortened day, when, at its close,
The blazing tapers, on the jovial board,
Dispense o'er every care-forgetting face
Their cheering light, and harmless mirth abounds.
Now far be banished, from our social ring,
The party wrangle fierce, the argument
Deep, learned, metaphysical, and dull,
Oft dropt, as oft again renewed, endless:
120
Or vapid joke, filched from Joe Miller's page,
Or tale of ghost, hobgoblin dire, or witch;
Nor would I, with a proud fastidious frown,
Proscribe the laugh-provoking pun; absurd
Although it be, and hard to be discerned,
It serves the purpose, if it shake our sides.
Now let the temperate cup inspire the song,
The catch, the glee; or list! the melting lays
Of Scotia's pastoral vales,—they ever please.
Loud blows the blast; while, sheltered from its rage,
The social circle feel their joys enhanced.
Ah, little think they of the storm-tossed ship,
Amid the uproar of the winds and waves,
The waves unseen, save by the lightning's glare,
Or cannon's flash, sad signal of distress.
The trembling crew each moment think they feel
The shock of sunken rock:—at last they strike:
Borne on the blast, their dying voices reach,
Faintly, the sea-girt hamlet; help is vain:
The morning light discloses to the view
The mast alternate seen and hid, as sinks
Or heaves the surge. The early village maid
Turns pale, like clouds when o'er the moon they glide;
She thinks of her true love, far, far at sea;
Mournful, the live long day she turns her wheel,
And ever and anon her head she bends,
While with the flax she dries the trickling tear.
The social circle feel their joys enhanced.
Ah, little think they of the storm-tossed ship,
Amid the uproar of the winds and waves,
The waves unseen, save by the lightning's glare,
Or cannon's flash, sad signal of distress.
The trembling crew each moment think they feel
The shock of sunken rock:—at last they strike:
Borne on the blast, their dying voices reach,
Faintly, the sea-girt hamlet; help is vain:
The morning light discloses to the view
The mast alternate seen and hid, as sinks
Or heaves the surge. The early village maid
Turns pale, like clouds when o'er the moon they glide;
121
Mournful, the live long day she turns her wheel,
And ever and anon her head she bends,
While with the flax she dries the trickling tear.
123
THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD.
How calm that little lake! no breath of windSighs through the reeds; a clear abyss it seems
Held in the concave of the inverted sky,—
In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing
Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails
Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood!
Fearless of harm, they row their easy way;
The water-lily, 'neath the plumy prows,
Dips, re-appearing in their dimpled track.
Yet, even amid that scene of peace, the noise
Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes.
Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dogs,
Boisterous approach; the spaniel dashes in;
Quick he descries the prey, and faster swims,
And eager barks: the harmless flock, dismayed,
124
All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait
To lure the foe, and lead him from their young;
But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore.
Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden storm
Arrests their flight; they fluttering, bleeding fall,
And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake.
125
TO A REDBREAST,
THAT FLEW IN AT MY WINDOW.
From snowy plains, and icy sprays,
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:—
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No! freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
That note, that summer note, I know;
It wakes, at once, and soothes my woe,—
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,—ah, still prolong the dream!
Still, with thy song, those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:—
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No! freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
126
It wakes, at once, and soothes my woe,—
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,—ah, still prolong the dream!
Still, with thy song, those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.
No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt, nibbling, share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Unchecked, shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt, nibbling, share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Unchecked, shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
127
EPITAPH
ON A BLACKBIRD, KILLED BY A HAWK.
Winter was o'er, and spring-flowers decked the glade;
The Blackbird's note among the wild woods rung:
Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid
Beneath the bush, on which so sweet he sung.
The Blackbird's note among the wild woods rung:
Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid
Beneath the bush, on which so sweet he sung.
Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent,
Are now all soiled among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And, for thy dirge, the Redbreast lends his lay.
Are now all soiled among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And, for thy dirge, the Redbreast lends his lay.
128
THE POOR MAN'S FUNERAL.
Yon motley, sable-suited throng, that wait
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale
Of woe; the husband, parent, is no more.
Contending with disease, he laboured long,
By penury compelled; yielding at last,
He laid him down to die; but, lingering on
From day to day, he, from his sickbed, saw,
Heart-broken quite, his childrens' looks of want
Veiled in a clouded smile; alas! he heard
The elder, lispingly, attempt to still
The younger's plaint,—languid he raised his head,
And thought he yet could toil, but sunk
Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend.
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale
Of woe; the husband, parent, is no more.
Contending with disease, he laboured long,
By penury compelled; yielding at last,
He laid him down to die; but, lingering on
From day to day, he, from his sickbed, saw,
Heart-broken quite, his childrens' looks of want
Veiled in a clouded smile; alas! he heard
The elder, lispingly, attempt to still
The younger's plaint,—languid he raised his head,
And thought he yet could toil, but sunk
Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend.
129
The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand
(Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall.
And now they pass into the field of graves,
And now around the narrow house they stand,
And view the plain black board sink from the sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mixed mould.
The turf is spread; uncovered is each head,—
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.
Woes me! those tear-dimmed eyes, that sobbing breast!
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home: no more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gently stroke
Thy sun-bleached head, and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,—
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of woe profound. Haste to the widowed arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand
(Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall.
And now they pass into the field of graves,
And now around the narrow house they stand,
And view the plain black board sink from the sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mixed mould.
The turf is spread; uncovered is each head,—
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.
Woes me! those tear-dimmed eyes, that sobbing breast!
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home: no more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gently stroke
Thy sun-bleached head, and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,—
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of woe profound. Haste to the widowed arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.
130
TO ENGLAND,
ON THE SLAVE TRADE.
Of all thy foreign crimes, from pole to pole,
None moves such indignation in my soul,
Such hate, such deep abhorrence, as thy trade
In human beings!
Thy ignorance thou dar'st to plead no more;
The proofs have thundered from the Afric shore.
Behold, behold, yon rows ranged over rows,
Of dead with dying linked in death's last throes.
Behold a single victim of despair,
Dragged upon deck to gasp the ocean air;
Devoid of fear, he hears the tempest rise,—
The ship descending 'tween the waves, he eyes
With eager hope; he thinks his woes shall end:
Sunk in despair he sees her still ascend.
None moves such indignation in my soul,
Such hate, such deep abhorrence, as thy trade
In human beings!
Thy ignorance thou dar'st to plead no more;
The proofs have thundered from the Afric shore.
Behold, behold, yon rows ranged over rows,
Of dead with dying linked in death's last throes.
Behold a single victim of despair,
Dragged upon deck to gasp the ocean air;
Devoid of fear, he hears the tempest rise,—
The ship descending 'tween the waves, he eyes
With eager hope; he thinks his woes shall end:
Sunk in despair he sees her still ascend.
131
What barbarous race are authors of his woe?
With freights of fetters, who the vessel stow?
Who forge the torture-irons, who plait the scourge?
Whose navies shield the pirates o'er the surge?
Who, from the mother's arms, the clinging child
Tears? It is England,—merciful and mild!
Most impious race, who brave the watery realm
In blood-fraught barks, with Murder at the helm!
Who trade in tortures, profit draw from pain,
And even whose mercy is but love of gain!
Whose human cargoes carefully are packt,
By rule and square, according to the Act!—
And is that gore-drenched flag by you unfurled,
Champions of right, knights-errant of the world?
“Yes, yes,” your Commons said, “Let such things be,
“If others rob and murder, why not we?”
In the smoothed speech, and in the upraised hand,
I hear the lash, I hear the fierce command;
Each guilty nay ten thousand crimes decreed,
And English mercy said, Let millions bleed!
With freights of fetters, who the vessel stow?
Who forge the torture-irons, who plait the scourge?
Whose navies shield the pirates o'er the surge?
Who, from the mother's arms, the clinging child
Tears? It is England,—merciful and mild!
Most impious race, who brave the watery realm
In blood-fraught barks, with Murder at the helm!
Who trade in tortures, profit draw from pain,
And even whose mercy is but love of gain!
Whose human cargoes carefully are packt,
By rule and square, according to the Act!—
And is that gore-drenched flag by you unfurled,
Champions of right, knights-errant of the world?
“Yes, yes,” your Commons said, “Let such things be,
“If others rob and murder, why not we?”
In the smoothed speech, and in the upraised hand,
I hear the lash, I hear the fierce command;
Each guilty nay ten thousand crimes decreed,
And English mercy said, Let millions bleed!
132
SONG.
[O lassie, will ye gang wi' me]
O lassie, will ye gang wi' me,
And dwell amang yon hielan' hills;—
Trim is my skiff, saft rows the sea,
The summer breeze the sail scarce fills.
And dwell amang yon hielan' hills;—
Trim is my skiff, saft rows the sea,
The summer breeze the sail scarce fills.
The sea-bird on her white breast lights,
And, floating trig, her feathers laves;
Or on the wing, in wheeling flight,
Darts at her image in the waves.
And, floating trig, her feathers laves;
Or on the wing, in wheeling flight,
Darts at her image in the waves.
The hielan' hills, though bare and bleak,
Hae bonny glens and shaws between,
Whare blooms the wild-rose like thy cheek,
And bluebells like thy downcast een.
Hae bonny glens and shaws between,
Whare blooms the wild-rose like thy cheek,
And bluebells like thy downcast een.
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What though nae houses, bien and braw
Rise proudly on yon heathery braes,—
A shielin is a lordly ha',
If there wi' thee I pass my days.
Rise proudly on yon heathery braes,—
A shielin is a lordly ha',
If there wi' thee I pass my days.
ANSWER.
Yes, laddie, I will gang wi' thee;
Wi' thee I'll trust the faithless main;
Wi' thee I'll live, wi' thee I'll die,
I fear na ought, if thou'rt my ain.
Wi' thee I'll trust the faithless main;
Wi' thee I'll live, wi' thee I'll die,
I fear na ought, if thou'rt my ain.
On heathery bents I'll lay my head,
Hardship, whan tholed for thee, has charms;
Wi' thee I'll ask nae other bed,
Nae other shielin than thy arms.
Hardship, whan tholed for thee, has charms;
Wi' thee I'll ask nae other bed,
Nae other shielin than thy arms.
134
SONG.
[O marion is a bonny lass]
O marion is a bonny lass,
There's glawmry in her smile;
And yet by a' it is confest,
That Marion's free frae guile.
There's glawmry in her smile;
And yet by a' it is confest,
That Marion's free frae guile.
Ilk rising thought, before she speaks,
Ye maist wad think ye saw;
An' then her voice comes like the breeze
Blawn o'er the birken shaw.
Ye maist wad think ye saw;
An' then her voice comes like the breeze
Blawn o'er the birken shaw.
Whane'er she sings, her artless notes
In sweetness far exceed
The echo, that, frae rock to rock,
Repeats the shepherd's reed:
In sweetness far exceed
The echo, that, frae rock to rock,
Repeats the shepherd's reed:
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An' a' the while a wavering blush
Her modest fears discloses,
Like a bonny bird that sings embowered
Amang a bush o' roses.
Her modest fears discloses,
Like a bonny bird that sings embowered
Amang a bush o' roses.
Whan coming frae the fair wi' her,
Though e'er sae late at een,
The gloom is light, an hour's a blink,
The muir's a foggy green.
Though e'er sae late at een,
The gloom is light, an hour's a blink,
The muir's a foggy green.
But what I like the best of a',
She says whan I'm beside her,
Be't light, be't dark, she never thinks
That skaith can e'er betide her.
She says whan I'm beside her,
Be't light, be't dark, she never thinks
That skaith can e'er betide her.
136
MAIDA,
OR THE BEGINNIN' O'T.
At Maida our Scotch lads gied Frenchmen a fleg,
Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!
For numbers maist double they cared na a feg;
That was na an ill beginnin' o't.
Puir Regnier drew up on the side o' a brae,
Wi' a bog an' a wood atween him and the fae;
But for braes, bogs, and woods, Scotchmen cared na a strae,
An' they wist but to see the beginnin' o't.
Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!
For numbers maist double they cared na a feg;
That was na an ill beginnin' o't.
Puir Regnier drew up on the side o' a brae,
Wi' a bog an' a wood atween him and the fae;
But for braes, bogs, and woods, Scotchmen cared na a strae,
An' they wist but to see the beginnin' o't.
Up the hill, like a misty cloud after a shower,
Our lads breasted up to the winnin' o't;
Fare the right to the left ilka face leukit doure,
An' wist but to hear the beginnin' o't.
Now the silence was dead, till mak ready! was heard,
Syne click gied ilk lock; level laigh was the word:—
Here and there some French braggers lay flat on the yird;
Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!
Our lads breasted up to the winnin' o't;
Fare the right to the left ilka face leukit doure,
An' wist but to hear the beginnin' o't.
Now the silence was dead, till mak ready! was heard,
Syne click gied ilk lock; level laigh was the word:—
Here and there some French braggers lay flat on the yird;
Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!
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But a' this was sport to the deeds o' the day,
For what was it but the beginnin' o't,—
Till Stuart cries—charge! then hey for the fae,
And our callans push on to the winnin' o't.
But at the first clash that the bagonets gie,
The Frenchmen they swither, they stoiter, they flee:
In the race, as in fechtin', our lads bear the gree,
O that was a bonny rinnin' o't!
For what was it but the beginnin' o't,—
Till Stuart cries—charge! then hey for the fae,
And our callans push on to the winnin' o't.
But at the first clash that the bagonets gie,
The Frenchmen they swither, they stoiter, they flee:
In the race, as in fechtin', our lads bear the gree,
O that was a bonny rinnin' o't!
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THE COTTAR'S LAMENT.
An' maun we leave our heartsome hame,
To wander far awa';
An' maun we leave the glen sae lown,
Below the birken shaw;
To wander far awa';
An' maun we leave the glen sae lown,
Below the birken shaw;
An' maun our wee things nae mair wade,
An' paidle in the burn;
An' maun we a', baith auld and young,
Learn,—Man was made to mourn!
An' paidle in the burn;
An' maun we a', baith auld and young,
Learn,—Man was made to mourn!
In some unhalesome, darksome town,
We'll, ablins, find a bield;
An' whan we're sick, the house o' dool
Our helpless heads will shield:
We'll, ablins, find a bield;
An' whan we're sick, the house o' dool
Our helpless heads will shield:
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But nae kent faces there will sit
To watch the troubled hour;
An' stranger's hands will turn the couch,
Wi' looks baith cauld and doure:
To watch the troubled hour;
An' stranger's hands will turn the couch,
Wi' looks baith cauld and doure:
The bloom upon the infant cheeks,
That glint wi' thoughtless glee,
Will fade right fast; and for the rose,
A sallow hue we'll see.
That glint wi' thoughtless glee,
Will fade right fast; and for the rose,
A sallow hue we'll see.
O then gif fok, wha hae the power,
This ae cot-house wad spare!
Our wee things' hands, up wa' and roof,
Wad train the woodbine fair.
This ae cot-house wad spare!
Our wee things' hands, up wa' and roof,
Wad train the woodbine fair.
A sweetbrier hedge we'd plant a' round,
To scent the gloamin' hour;
And change a cottar's hamely hut
Into a bonny bower.
To scent the gloamin' hour;
And change a cottar's hamely hut
Into a bonny bower.
O gin the fok, wha hae the power,
Wad say the word—remain;
What they in gowd and siller tint,
They wad in blessins gain:
Wad say the word—remain;
What they in gowd and siller tint,
They wad in blessins gain:
140
Aye, nameless ways, by us unseen,
God weel or wae extends,
An' aften as the deed deserves,
Heaven's dew or blight descends.
God weel or wae extends,
An' aften as the deed deserves,
Heaven's dew or blight descends.
141
THE THANKSGIVING
OFF CAPE TRAFALGAR.
Upon the high, yet gently rolling wave,The floating tomb that heaves above the brave,
Soft sighs the gale, that late tremendous roared,
Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword.
And now the cannon's peaceful summons calls
The victor bands, to mount their wooden walls,
And from the ramparts, where their comrades fell,
The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell:
Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread,
And crowd the engines whence the lightnings sped:
The white-robed Priest his upraised hands extends;
Hushed is each voice, attention leaning bends;
Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise,
Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies.
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And tears of love celestial joys exclude.
The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain,
Lifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain;
While parting spirits, mingling with the lay,
On halleluiahs wing their heavenward way.
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TO MY SON.
Twice has the sun commenced his annual round,Since first thy footsteps tottered o'er the ground;
Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear,
By faultering out the name to fathers dear.
O! nature's language, with her looks combined,
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
O! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than beauty's magic smile;
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm,
I gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.
Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.
Almighty Power! his harmless life defend,
And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.
And yet a wish will rise,—would I might live,
Till added years his memory firmness give!
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