The Poems of Robert Bloomfield :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Well! I'm determin'd; that's enough:—
“Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones,
“I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough,
“To go and court the Widow Jones.

II

“Our master talks of stable-room,
“And younger horses on his grounds;
“'Tis easy to foresee thy doom,
“Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds.

132

III

“But could I win the widow's hand,
“I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee;
“For thou upon the best of land
“Should'st feed, and live, and die with me.

IV

“And must the pole-axe lay thee low?
“And will they pick thy poor old bones?
“No—hang me if it shall be so,—
“If I can win the Widow Jones.”

V

Twirl went his stick; his curly pate
A bran-new hat uplifted bore;
And Abner, as he leapt the gate,
Had never look'd so gay before.

133

VI

And every spark of love reviv'd
That had perplex'd him long ago,
When busy folks and fools contriv'd
To make his Mary answer—no.

VII

But whether, freed from recent vows,
Her heart had back to Abner flown,
And mark'd him for a second spouse,
In truth is not exactly known.

VIII

Howbeit, as he came in sight,
She turn'd her from the garden stile,
And downward look'd with pure delight,
With half a sigh and half a smile.

134

IX

She heard his sounding step behind,
The blush of joy crept up her cheek,
As cheerly floated on the wind,
“Hoi! Mary Jones—what won't you speak?”

X

Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,
She turn'd, but found her courage fled;
And scolding sparrows from the eaves
Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head.

XI

Down Abner sat, with glowing heart,
Resolv'd, whatever might betide,
To speak his mind, no other art
He ever knew, or ever tried.

135

XII

And gently twitching Mary's hand,
The bench had ample room for two,
His first word made her understand
The ploughman's errand was to woo.

XIII

“My Mary—may I call thee so?
“For many a happy day we've seen,
“And if not mine, aye, years ago,
“Whose was the fault? you might have been

XIV

“All that's gone by: but I've been musing,
‘And vow'd, and hope to keep it true,
“That she shall be my own heart's choosing
“Whom I call wife.—Hey, what say you?

136

XV

“And as I drove my plough along,
“And felt the strength that's in my arm,
“Ten years, thought I, amidst my song,
“I've been head-man at Harewood farm.

XVI

“And now, my own dear Mary's free,
“Whom I have lov'd this many a day,
“Who knows but she may think on me?
“I'll go hear what she has to say.

XVII

“Perhaps that little stock of land
“She holds, but knows not how to till,
“Will suffer in the widow's hand,
“And make poor Mary poorer still.

137

XVIII

“That scrap of land, with one like her,
“How we might live! and be so blest!
“And who should Mary Jones prefer?
“Why, surely, him who loves her best!

XIX

“Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench,
“I would not idly thus intrude,”—
Mary look'd downward on the bench,
O'erpower'd by love and gratitude.

XX

And lean'd her head against the vine,
With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss,
Till Abner cried, “You must be mine,
“You must,”—and seal'd it with a kiss.

138

XXI

She talk'd of shame, and wip'd her cheek,
But what had shame with them to do.
Who nothing meant but truth to speak,
And downright honour to pursue?

XXII

His eloquence improv'd apace,
As manly pity fill'd his mind;
“You know poor Bayard; here's the case,—
“He's past his labour, old, and blind:

XXIII

“If you and I should but agree
“To settle here for good and all,
“Could you give all your heart to me,
“And grudge that poor old rogue a stall?

139

XXIV

“I'll buy him, for the dogs shall never
“Set tooth upon a friend so true;
“He'll not live long, but I for ever
“Shall know I gave the beast his due.

XXV

“'Mongst all I've known of ploughs and carts,
“And ever since I learn'd to drive,
“He was not match'd in all these parts;
“There was not such a horse alive!

XXVI

“Ready, as birds to meet the morn,
“Were all his efforts at the plough;
“Then, the mill-brook with hay or corn,
“Good creature! how he'd spatter through

140

XXVII

“He was a horse of mighty pow'r,
“Compact in frame, and strong of limb;
“Went with a chirp from hour to hour;
“Whip-cord! 'twas never made for him.

XXVIII

“I left him in the shafts behind,
“His fellows all unhook'd and gone,
“He neigh'd, and deem'd the thing unking,
“Then, starting, drew the load alone!

XXIX

“But I might talk till pitch-dark night,
“And then have something left to say;
“But, Mary, am I wrong or right,
“Or, do I throw my words away?

141

XXX

“Leave me, or take me and my horse;
“I've told thee truth, and all I know:
“Truth should breed truth; that comes of course;
“If I sow wheat, why wheat will grow.”

XXXI

“Yes, Abner, but thus soon to yield,
“Neighbours would fleer, and look behind 'em;
“Though, with a husband in the field,
“Perhaps, indeed, I should not mind 'em.

XXXII

“I've known your generous nature well;
“My first denial cost me dear;
“How this may end we cannot tell,
“But, as for Bayard, bring him here.”

142

XXXIII

“Bless thee for that,” the ploughman cried,
At once both starting from the seat,
He stood a guardian by her side,
But talk'd of home,—'twas growing late.

XXXIV

Then step for step within his arm,
She cheer'd him down the dewy way;
And no two birds upon the farm
E'er parted with more joy than they.

XXXV

What news at home? The smile he wore
One little sentence turn'd to sorrow;
An order met him at the door,
“Take Bayard to the dogs to-morrow.”

143

XXXXVI

Yes, yes, thought he; and heav'd a sigh,
Die when he will he's not your debtor:
I must obey, and he must die,—
That's if I can't contrive it better.

XXXVII

He left his Mary late at night,
And had succeeded in the main;
No sooner peep'd the morning light
But he was on the road again!

XXXVIII

Suppose she should refuse her hand?
Such thoughts will come, I know not why,
Shall I, without a wife or land,
Want an old horse? then wherefore buy?

144

XXXIX

From bush to bush, from stile to stile,
Perplex'd he trod the fallow ground,
And told his money all the while,
And weigh'd the matter round and round.

XL

“I'll borrow,” that's the best thought yet;
Mary shall save the horse's life.—
Kind-hearted wench! what, run in debt
Before I know she'll be my wife?

XLI

These women won't speak plain and free.—
Well, well, I'll keep my service still;
She has not said she'd marry me,
But yet I dare to say she will.

145

XLII

But while I take this shay-brain'd course,
And like a fool run to and fro,
Master, perhaps, may sell the horse!
Sell him!—this instant home I'll go.

XLIII

The nightly rains had drench'd the grove,
He plung'd right on with headlong pace
A man but half as much in love
Perhaps had found a cleaner place.

XLIV

The day rose fair; with team a-field,
He watch'd the farmer's cheerful brow;
And in a lucky hour reveal'd
His secret at his post, the plough.

146

XLV

And there without a whine began,
“Master, you'll give me your advice;
“I'm going to marry—if I can—
“And want old Bayard; what's his price?

XLVI

“For Mary Jones last night agreed,
“Or near upon't, to be my wife:
“The horse's value I don't heed,
“I only want to save his life.”

XLVII

“Buy him, hey! Abner! trust me I
“Have not the thought of gain in view;
“Bayard's best days we've seen go by;
“He shall be cheap enough to you.”

147

XLVIII

The wages paid, the horse brought out,
The hour of separation come;
The farmer turn'd his chair about,
“Good fellow, take him, take him home.

XLIX

“You're welcome, Abner, to the beast,
“For you've a faithful servant been;
“They'll thrive I doubt not in the least,
“Who know what work and service mean.’

L

The maids at parting, one and all,
From different windows different tones;
Bade him farewell with many a bawl,
And sent their love to Mary Jones.

148

LI

He wav'd his hat, and turn'd away,
When loud the cry of children rose;
“Abner, good bye!” they stopt their play;
“There goes poor Bayard! there he goes!”

LII

Half choak'd with joy, with love, and pride,
He now with dainty clover fed him,
Now took a short triumphant ride,
And then again got down and led him.

LIII

And hobbling onward up the hill,
The widow's house was full in sight,
He pull'd the bridle harder still,
“Come on, we shan't be there to night.”

149

LIV

She met them with a smile so sweet,
The stable-door was open thrown;
The blind horse lifted high his feet,
And loudly snorting, laid him down.

LV

O Victory! from that stock of laurels
You keep so snug for camps and thrones,
Spare us one twig from all their quarrels,
For Abner and the Widow Jones.

151

TO MY OLD OAK TABLE.

Friend of my peaceful days! substantial friend,
Whom wealth can never change, nor int'rest bend,
I love thee like a child. Thou wert to me
The dumb companion of my misery,
And oftner of my joys;—then as I spoke,
I shar'd thy sympathy, Old Heart of Oak!
For surely when my labour ceas'd at night,
With trembling, feverish hands, and aching sight,
The draught that cheer'd me and subdu'd my care,
On thy broad shoulders thou wert proud to bear.

152

O'er thee, with expectation's fire elate,
I've sat and ponder'd on my future fate:
On thee, with winter muffins for thy store,
I've lean'd, and quite forgot that I was poor.

Where dropp'd the acorn that gave birth to thee?
Can'st thou trace back thy line of ancestry?
We're match'd, old friend, and let us not repine,
Darkness o'erhangs thy origin and mine,
Both may be truly honourable: yet,
We'll date our honours from the day we met;
When, of my worldly wealth the parent stock,
Right welcome up the Thames from Woolwich Dock
Thou cam'st, when hopes ran high, and love was young;
But soon our olive-branches round thee sprung;
Soon came the days that tried a faithful wife,
The noise of children, and the cares of life.

153

Then, midst the threat'nings of a wintry sky,
That cough which blights the bud of infancy,
The dread of parents, Rest's inveterate foe,
Came like a plague, and turn'd my songs to woe.

Rest! without thee what strength can long survive,
What spirit keep the flame of Hope alive?
The midnight murmur of the cradle gave
Sounds of despair; and chilly as the grave
We felt its undulating blast arise,
Midst whisper'd sorrows and ten thousand sighs.
Expiring embers warn'd us each to sleep,
By turns to watch alone, by turns to weep,
By turns to hear, and keep from starting wild,
The sad, faint wailings of a dying child.
But Death, obedient to Heav'n's high command,
Withdrew his jav'lin, and unclench'd his hand;

154

The little sufferers triumph'd over pain,
Their mother smil'd, and bade me hope again.
Yet Care gain'd ground, Exertion triumph'd less,
Thick fell the gathering terrors of Distress;
Anxietv and Griefs without a name,
Had made their dreadful inroads on my frame;
The creeping Dropsy, cold as cold could be,
Unnervd my arm, and bow'd my head to thee.
Thou to thy trust, old friend, hast not been true;
These eyes the bitterest tears they ever knew
Let fall upon thee; now all wip'd away;
But what from memory shall wipe out that day?
The great, the wealthy of my native land,
To whom a guinea is a grain of sand,
I thought upon them, for my thoughts were free,
But all unknown were then my woes and me.

155

Still, Resignation was my dearest friend,
And Reason pointed to a glorious end;
With anxious sighs, a parent's hopes and pride,
I wish'd to live—I trust I could have died!
But winter's clouds pursu'd their stormy way,
And March brought sunshine with the length'ning day,
And bade my heart arise, that morn and night
Now throbb'd with irresistible delight.
Delightful 'twas to leave disease behind,
And feel the renovation of the mind!
To lead abroad, upborne on Pleasure's wing,
Our children, midst the glories of the spring;
Our fellow-sufferers, our only wealth,
To gather daisies in the breeze of health!

'Twas then, too, when our prospects grew so fair,
And Sabbath bells announc'd the morning pray'r;

156

Beneath that vast gigantic dome we bow'd,
That lifts its flaming cross above the cloud;
Had gain'd the centre of the chequer'd floor;—
That instant, with reverberating roar
Burst forth the pealing organ—mute we stood
The strong sensation boiling through my blood,
Rose in a storm of joy, allied to pain,
I wept, and worshipp'd God, and wept again
And felt, amidst the fervor of my praise,
The sweet assurances of better days.

In that gay season, honest friend of mine.
I marked the brilliant sun upon thee shine
Imagination took her flights so free,
Home was delicious with my book and thee,
The purchas'd nosegay. or brown ears of corn,
Were thy gay plumes upon a summer's morn,

157

Awakening memory, that disdains control,
They spoke the darling language of my soul:
They whisper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth,
And conjur'd back the sunshine of my youth;
Fancy presided at the joyful birth,
I pour'd the torrent of my feelings forth;
Conscious of truth in Nature's humble track,
And wrote “The Farmer's Boy” upon thy back!
Enough, old friend:—thour't mine; and shalt partake,
While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak,
Whatever fortune deals me.—Part with thee!
No, not till death shall set my spirit free;
For know, should plenty crown my life's decline,
A most important duty may be thine:
Then, guard me from Temptation's base control,
From apathy and littleness of soul.

158

The sight of thy old frame, so rough, so rude,
Shall twitch the sleeve of nodding Gratitude;
Shall teach me but to venerate the more
Honest Oak Tables and their guests—the poor;
Teach me unjust distinctions to deride,
And falsehoods gender'd in the brain of Pride;
Shall give to Fancy still the cheerful hour,
To Intellect, its freedom and its power;
To Hospitality's enchanting ring
A charm, which nothing but thyself can bring.
The man who would not look with honest pride
On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide,
And bore him, when he bow'd the trembling knee,
Home, through the mighty perils of the sea,
I love him not.—He ne'er shall be my guest;
Nor sip my cup, nor witness how I'm blest;

159

Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame,
A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame;
But thou through life a monitor shalt prove,
Sacred to Truth, to Poetry, and Love.

Dec. 1803.

163

THE HORKEY.

A PROVINCIAL BALLAD.

I

What gossips prattled in the sun,
Who talk'd him fairly down,
Up, Memory! tell; 'tis Suffolk fun,
And lingo of their own.

II

Ah! Judie Twitchet! though thou'rt dead,
With thee the tale begins;
For still seems thrumming in my head
The rattling of thy pins.

164

III

Thou Queen of knitters! for a ball
Of worsted was thy pride;
With dangling stockings great and small,
And world of clack beside!

IV

“We did so laugh; the moon shone bright;
“More fun you never knew;
“'Twas Farmer Cheerum's Horkey night,
“And I, and Grace, and Sue—

V

“But bring a stool, sit round about,
“And boys, be quiet, pray;
“And let me tell my story out;
“'Twas sitch a merry day!

165

VI

“The butcher whistled at the door,
“And brought a load of meat;
“Boys rubb'd their hands, and cried, ‘there's more,’
“Dogs wagg'd their tails to see't.

VII

“On went the boilers till the hake
“Had much ado to bear 'em;
“The magpie talk'd for talking sake,
“Birds sung;—but who could hear 'em?

VIII

“Creak went the jack; the cats were scar'd,
“We had not time to heed 'em,
“The owd hins cackled in the yard,
“For we forgot to feed 'em!

166

IX

“Yet 'twas not I, as I may say,
“Because as how, d'ye see,
“I only help'd there for the day;
“They cou'dn't lay't to me.

X

“Now Mrs. Cheerum's best lace cap
“Was mounted on her head,
“Guests at the door began to rap,
“And now the cloth was spread.

XI

“Then clatter went the earthen plates—
“‘Mind, Judie,’ was the cry;
“I could have cop't them at their pates;
“‘Trenchers for me,’ said I,

167

XII

“That look so clean upon the ledge,
“All proof against a fall;
“They never turn a sharp knife's edge,
“But fashion rules us all.

XIII

“Home came the jovial Horkey load,
“Last of the whole year's crop;
“And Grace amongst the green boughs rode
“Right plump upon the top.

XIV

“This way and that the waggon reel'd,
“And never queen rode higher;
“Her cheeks were colour'd in the fields,
“And ours before the fire.

168

XV

“The laughing harvest-folks, and John,
“Came in and look'd askew;
“'Twas my red face that set them on,
“And then they leer'd at Sue.

XVI

“And Farmer Cheerum went, good man,
“And broach'd the Horkey beer;
“And sitch a mort of folks began
“To eat up our good cheer.

XVII

“Says he, ‘Thank God for what's before us;
“That thus we meet agen;’
“The mingling voices, like a chorus,
“Join'd cheerfully, ‘Amen.’—

169

XVIII

“Welcome and plenty, there they found 'em,
“The ribs of beef grew light;
“And puddings—till the boys got round 'em,
“And then they vanish'd quite.

XIX

“Now all the guests, with Farmer Crouder,
“Began to prate of corn;
“And we found out they talk'd the louder,
“The oftner pass'd the Horn.

XX

“Out came the nuts; we set a cracking;
“The ale came round our way;
“By gom, we women fell a clacking
“As loud again as they.

170

XXI

“John sung ‘Old Benbow’ loud and strong,
“And I, ‘The Constant Swain,’
“‘Cheer up, my Lads,’ was Simon's song,
“‘We'll conquer them again.’

XXII

“Now twelve o'clock was drawing nigh,
“And all in merry cue;
“I knock'd the cask, ‘O, ho!’ said I,
“‘We've almost conquer'd you.’

XXIII

“My Lord begg'd round, and held his hat,
“Says Farmer Gruff, says he,
“‘There's many a Lord, Sam, I know that,
“‘Has begg'd as well as thee.’

171

XXIV

“Bump in his hat the shillings tumbled
“All round among the folks;
“‘Laugh if you wool,’ said Sam, and mumbled,
“‘You pay for all your jokes.’

XXV

“Joint stock you know among the men,
“To drink at their own charges;
“So up they got full drive, and then
“Went out to halloo largess.

XXVI

“And sure enough the noise they made!!—
—“But let me mind my tale:
“We follow'd them, we worn't afraid,
“We'ad all been drinking ale.

172

XXVII

“As they stood hallooing back to back,
“We, lightly as a feather,
“Went sideling round, and in a crack
“Had pinn'd their coats together.

XXVIII

“'Twas near upon't as light as noon;
“‘A largess, on the hill,
“They shouted to the full round moon,
“I think I hear 'em still!

XXIX

“But when they found the trick, my stars!
“They well knew who to blame,
“Our giggles turn'd to loud ha, ha's,
“And arter us they came.

173

XXX

“The hindmost was the dairy-maid,
“And Sam came blundering by;
“She could not shun him, so they said;
“I know she did not try.

XXXI

“And off set John, with all his might,
“To chase me down the yard,
“Till I was nearly gran'd outright;
“He hugg'd so woundy hard.

XXXII

“Still they kept up the race and laugh,
“And round the house we flew;
“But bark ye! the best fun by half
“Was Simon arter Sue.

174

XXXIII

“She car'd not, dark nor light, not she,
“So, near the dairy door
“She pass'd a clean white hog, you see,
“They'd kilt the day before.

XXXIV

“High on the spirket there it hung,—
“‘Now, Susie—what can save ye?’
“Round the cold pig his arms he flung,
“And cried, ‘Ah! here I have ye!’

XXXV

“The farmers heard what Simon said,
“And what a noise! good lack!
“Some almost laugh'd themselves to dead
“And others clapt his back.

175

XXXVI

“We all at once began to tell
“What fun we had abroad;
“But Simon stood our jeers right well;
—“He fell asleep and snor'd.

XXXVII

“Then in his button-hole upright,
“Did Farmer Crouder put
“A slip of paper, twisted tight,
“And held the candle to't.

XXXVIII

“It smok'd, and smok'd, beneath his nose,
“The harmless blaze crept higher;
“Till with a vengeance up he rose,
“Fire, Judie, Sue! fire, fire!

176

XXXIX

“The clock struck one—some talk'd of parting,
“Some said it was a sin,
“And hitch'd their chairs;—but those for starting
“Now let the moonlight in.

XL

“Owd women, loitering for the nonce ,
“Stood praising the fine weather;
“The menfolks took the hint at once
“To kiss them altogether.

XLI

“And out ran every soul beside,
“A shunny-pated crew;
“Owd folks could neither run nor hide,
“So some ketch'd one, some tew.

177

XLII

“They skriggl'd and began to scold,
“But laughing got the master;
“Some quack'ling cried, ‘let go your hold;’
“The farmers held the faster.

XLIII

“All innocent, that I'll be sworn,
“There worn't a bit of sorrow,
“And women, if their gowns are torn,
“Can mend them on the morrow.

XLIV

“Our shadows helter skelter danc'd
“About the moonlight ground;
“The wondering sheep, as on we pranc'd,
“Got up and gaz'd around.

178

XLV

“And well they might—till Farmer Cheerum,
“Now with a hearty glee,
“Bade all good morn as he came near 'em,
“And then to bed went he.

XLVI

“Then off we stroll'd this way and that,
“With merry voices ringing;
“And Echo answered us right pat,
“As home we rambl'd singing.

XLVII

“For, when we laugh'd, it laugh'd again,
“And to our own doors follow'd!
“‘Yo, ho!’ we cried; ‘Yo, ho!’ so plain,
“The misty meadow halloo'd.

179

XLVIII

“That's all my tale, and all the fun,
“Come, turn your wheels about;
“My worsted, see!—that's nicely done,
“Just held my story out!!”

XLIX

Poor Judie!—Thus Time knits or spins
The worsted from Life's ball!
Death stopt thy tales, and stopt thy pins,
—And so he'll serve us all.

A sliding pot-hook

Such a number

The lender of the reapers

Strangled

An iron hook.

For the purpose.

Giddy, thoughtless.

To struggle quick.

Choaking.

181

THE BROKEN CRUTCH.

A TALE.

“I tell you, Peggy,” said a voice behind
A hawthorn hedge, with wild briars thick entwin'd,
Where unseen trav'llers down a shady way
Journey'd beside the swaths of new-mown hay,
“I tell you, Peggy, 'tis a time to prove
“Your fortitude, your virtue, and your love.
“From honest poverty our lineage sprung,
“Your mother was a servant quite as young;—
“You weep; perhaps she wept at leaving home;
“Courage, my girl, nor fear the days to come.

182

“Go still to church, my Peggy, plainly drest,
“And keep a living conscience in your breast;
“Look to yourself, my lass, the maid's best fame,
“Beware, nor bring the Meldrums into shame:
“Be modest, to the voice of truth attend,
“Be honest, and you'll always find a friend:
“Your uncle Gilbert, stronger far than I,
“Will see you safe; on him you must rely:
“I've walk'd too far; this lameness, oh! the pain;
“Heav'n bless thee, child! I'll halt me back again;
“But when your first fair holiday may be,
“Do, dearest Peggy, spend your hours with me.”

Young Herbert Brooks, in strength and manhood bold,
Who, round the meads, his own possessions, stroll'd,
O'erheard the charge, and with a heart so gay,
Whistled his spaniel, and pursu'd his way.

183

Soon cross'd his path, and short obeisance paid,
Stout Gilbert Meldrum and a country maid;
A box upon his shoulder held full well
Her worldly riches, but the truth to tell
She bore the chief herself; that nobler part,
That beauteous gem, an uncorrupted heart.
And then that native loveliness! that cheek!
It bore the very tints her betters seek.
At such a sight the libertine would glow
With all the warmth that he can never know;
Would send his thoughts abroad without control,
The glimmering moonshine of his little soul.
“Above the reach of justice I shall soar,
“Her friends may rail, not punish; they're too poor
“That very thought the rapture will enhance,
“Poor, young, and friendless; what a glorious chance

184

“A few spare guineas may the conquest make,—
“I love the treachery for treachery's sake,—
“And when her wounded honour jealous grows,
“I'll cut away ten thousand oaths and vows,
“And bravely boast, all snarling fools defying,
“How I, a girl out-witted,—just by lying.”
Such was not Herbert—he had never known
Love's genuine smiles, nor suffer'd from his frown;
And as to that most honourable part
Of planting daggers in a parent's heart,
A novice quite:—he past his hours away,
Free as a bird, and buxom as the day;
Yet, should a lovely girl by chance arise,
Think not that Herbert Brooks would shut his eyes.

On thy calm joys with what delight I dream,
Thou dear green valley of my native stream!

185

Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand,
And every nook of thine is fairy land,
And ever will be, though the axe should smite
In Gain's rude service, and in Pity's spite,
Thy clustering alders, and at length invade
The last, last poplars, that compose thy shade:
Thy stream shall still in native freedom stray,
And undermine the willows in its way,
These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm,
This scythe of desolation call'd “Reform.”
No army past that way! yet are they fled,
The boughs that, when a school-boy, screen'd my head
I hate the murderous axe; estranging more
The winding vale from what it was of yore,
Than e'en mortality in all its rage,
And all the change of faces in an age.

186

“Warmth,” will they term it, that I speak so free;
They strip thy shades,—thy shades so dear to me!
In Herbert's days woods cloth'd both hill and dale;
But peace, Remembrance! let us tell the tale.

His home was in the valley, elms grew round
His moated mansion, and the pleasant sound
Of woodland birds that loud at day-break sing,
With the first cuckoos that proclaim the spring,
Flock'd round his dwelling; and his kitchen smoke,
That from the towering rookery upward broke,
Of joyful import to the poor hard by,
Stream'd a glad sign of hospitality;
So fancy pictures; but its day is o'er;
The moat remains; the dwelling is no more!
Its name denotes its melancholy fall,
For village children call the spot “Burnt-Hall.”

187

But where's the maid, who in the meadow-way
Met Herbert Brooks amongst the new-mown hay?

Th' adventure charm'd him, and next morning rose
The Sabbath, with its silence and repose;
The bells ceas'd chiming, and the broad blue sky
Smil'd on his peace, and met his tranquil eye
Inverted, from the foot-bridge on his way
To that still house where all his fathers lay;
There in his seat, each neighbour's face he knew—
The stranger girl was just before his pew!
He saw her kneel, with meek, but cheerful air,
And whisper the response to every prayer;
And, when the humble roof with praises rung,
He caught the Hallelujah from her tongue,
Rememb'ring with delight the tears that fell
When the poor father bade his child farewell;

188

And now, by kindling tenderness beguil'd,
He blest the prompt obedience of that child,
And link'd his fate with hers:—for, from that day,
Whether the weeks past cheerily away,
Or deep revolving doubts procur'd him pain,
The same bells chim'd—and there she was again!
What could be done? they came not there to woo,
On holy ground,—though love is holy too.

They met upon the foot-bridge one clear morn,
She in the garb by village lasses worn;
He, with unbutton'd frock that careless flew,
And buskin'd to resist the morning dew;
With downcast look she courtsied to the ground,
Just in his path—no room to sidle round.

“Well, pretty girl, this early rising yields
“The best enjoyment of the groves and fields.

189

“And makes the heart susceptible and meek,
“And keeps alive that rose upon your cheek.
“I long'd to meet you, Peggy, though so shy,
“I've watch'd your steps, and learn'd your history;
“You love your poor lame father, let that be
“A happy presage of your love for me.
“Come then, I'll stroll these meadows by your side,
“I've seen enough to wish you for my bride,
“And I must tell you so—Nay, let me hold
“This guiltless hand, I prize it more than gold;
“Of that I have my share, but fain would prove
“The sterling wealth of honourable love;
“My lands are fruitful, and my flocks increase,
“My house knows plenty, and my servants peace;
“One blessing more will crown my happy life,
“Like Adam, pretty girl, I want a wife.’

190

Need it be told his suit was not denied,
With youth, and wealth, and candour on his side?
Honour took charge of love so well begun,
And accidental meetings, one by one,
Increas'd so fast midst time's unheeded flight,
That village rumour married them outright;
Though wiser matrons, doubtful in debate,
Pitied deluded Peggy's hapless fate.
Friends took th' alarm, “And will he then disgrace
“The name of Brooks with this plebeian race?”
Others, more lax in virtue, not in pride,
Sported the wink of cunning on one side;
“He'll buy, no doubt, what Peggy has to sell,
“A little gallantry becomes him well.”
Meanwhile the youth, with self-determin'd aim,
Disdaining fraud, and pride's unfeeling claim,

191

Above control, pursued his generous way,
And talk'd to Peggy of the marriage-day.
Poor girl! she heard, with anguish and with doubt,
What her too-knowing neighbours preach'd about,
That Herbert would some nobler match prefer,
And surely never, never marry her;
Yet, with what trembling and delight she bore
The kiss, and heard the vow, “I'll doubt no more;”
“Protect me, Herbert, for your honour's sake
“You will,” she cried, “nor leave my heart to break.”
Then wrote to uncle Gilbert, joys, and fears,
And hope, and trust, and sprinkled all with tears.

Rous'd was the dormant spirit of the brave,
E'en lameness rose to succour and to save;
For, though they both rever'd young Herbert's name,
And knew his unexceptionable fame;

192

And though the girl had honestly declar'd
Love's first approaches, and their counsel shar'd,
Yet, that he truly meant to take for life
The poor and lowly Peggy for a wife;
Or, that she was not doom'd to be deceiv'd,
Was out of bounds:—it could not be believ'd.
“Go, Gilbert, save her; I, you know, am lame;
“Go, brother, go, and save my child from shame,
“Haste, and I'll pray for your success the while,
“Go, go;”—then bang'd his crutch upon the stile:—
It snapt.—E'en Gilbert trembled while he smote,
Then whipt the broken end beneath his coat;
“Aye, aye, I'll settle them; I'll let them see
“Who's to be conqu'ror this time, I or he!”

Then off he set, and with enormous strides,
Rebellious mutterings and oaths besides,

193

O'er cloverfield and fallow, bank and briar,
Pursu'd the nearest out, and fann'd the fire
That burnt within him.—Soon the Hall he spied,
And the grey willows by the water side;
Nature cried “halt!” nor could he well refuse;
Stop, Gilbert, breathe awhile, and ask the news.
“News?” cried a stooping grandame of the vale,
“Aye, rare news too; I'll tell you such a tale;
“But let me rest; this bank is dry and warm;
“Do you know Peggy Meldrum at the farm?
“Young Herbert's girl? He'as cloth'd her all in white,
“You never saw so beautiful a sight!
“Ah! he's a fine young man, and such a face!
“I knew his grandfather and all his race;
“He rode a tall white horse, and look'd so big,
“But how shall I describe his hat and wig?”

194

“Plague take his wig,” cried Gilbert, “and his hat,
“Where's Peggy Meldrum? can you tell me that?”
“Aye; but have patience, man! you'll hear anon,
“For I shall come to her as I go on,
“So hark'ye friend; his grandfather I say,”—
“Poh, poh,”—cried Gilbert, as he turn'd away.
Her eyes were fix'd, her story at a stand,
The snuff-box lay half open'd in her hand;
“You great, ill-manner'd clown! but I must bear it;
“You oaf; to ask the news, and then won't hear it!”
But Gilbert had gain'd forty paces clear,
When the reproof came murmuring on his ear.

Again he ask'd the first that pass'd him by;
A cow-boy stopt his whistle to reply.
“Why, I've a mistress coming home, that's all,
“They're playing Meg's diversion at the Hall;

195

“For master's gone, with Peggy, and his cousin,
“And all the lady-folks, about a dozen,
“To church, down there; he'll marry one no doubt,
“For that it seems is what they're gone about;
“I know it by their laughing and their jokes,
“Tho' they wor'nt ask'd at church like other folks.”

Gilbert kept on, and at the Hall-door found
The winking servants, where the jest went round:
All expectation; aye, and so was he,
But not with heart so merry and so free.
The kitchen table, never clear from beef,
Where hunger found its solace and relief,
Free to all strangers, had no charms for him,
For agitation worried every limb;
Ale he partook, but appetite had none,
And grey-hounds watch'd in vain to catch the bone.

196

All sounds alarm'd him, and all thoughts perplex'd,
With dogs, and beef, himself, and all things vex'd,
Till with one mingled caw above his head,
Their gliding shadows o'er the court-yard spread,
The rooks by thousands rose: the bells struck up;
He guess'd the cause, and down he set the cup,
And listening, heard, amidst the general hum,
A joyful exclamation, “Here they come!”—
Soon Herbert's cheerful voice was heard above,
Amidst the rustling hand-maids of his love,
And Gilbert follow'd without thought or dread,
The broad oak stair-case thunder'd with his tread;
Light tript the party, gay as gay could be,
Amidst their bridal dresses—there came he!
And with a look that guilt could ne'er withstand,
Approach'd his mece and caught her by the hand,

197

“Now are you married, Peggy, yes or no?
“Tell me at once, before I let you go!”
Abrupt he spoke, and gave her arm a swing,
But the same moment felt the wedding ring,
And stood confus'd.—She wip'd th' empassion'd tear,
“I am, I am; but is my father here?”
Herbert stood by, and sharing with his bride,
That perturbation which she strove to hide;
“Come, honest Gilbert, you're too rough this time,
“Indeed here's not the shadow of a crime;
“But where's your brother? When did you arrive?
“We waited long, for Nathan went at five!”

All this was Greek to Gilbert, downright Greek;
He knew not what to think, nor how to speak.
The case was this; that Nathan with a cart
To fetch them both at day-break was to start.

198

And so he did—but ere he could proceed,
He suck'd a charming portion with a reed,
Of that same wedding-ale, which was that day
To make the hearts of all the village gay;
Brim full of glee he trundled from the Hall,
And as for sky-larks, he out-sung them all;
Till growing giddy with his morning cup,
He, stretch'd beneath a hedge, the reins gave up;
The horse graz'd soberly without mishap,
And Nathan had a most delightful nap
For three good hours—Then, doubting, when he woke,
Whether his conduct would be deem'd a joke,
With double haste perform'd just half his part,
And brought the lame John Meldrum in his cart.
And at the moment Gilbert's wrath was high,
And while young Herbert waited his reply,

199

The sound of rattling wheels was at the door;
“There's my dear father now,”—they heard no more,
The bridegroom glided like an arrow down,
And Gilbert ran, though something of a clown,
With his best step; and cheer'd with smiles and pray'rs,
They bore old John in triumph up the stairs:
Poor Peggy, who her joy no more could check,
Clung like a dewy woodbine round his neck.
And all stood silent—Gilbert, off his guard,
And marvelling at virtue's rich reward,
Loos'd the one loop that held his coat before,
Down thumpt the broken crutch upon the floor!
They started, half alarm'd, scarce knowing why,
But through the glist'ning rapture of his eye
The bridegroom smil'd, then chid their simple fears,
And rous'd the blushing Peggy from her tears;

200

Around the uncle in a ring they came,
And mark'd his look of mingled pride and shame.

“Now honestly, good Gilbert, tell us true,
“What meant this cudgel? What was it to do?
“I know your heart suspected me of wrong,
“And that most true affection urg'd along
“Your feelings and your wrath; you were beside
“Till now the rightful guardian of the bride.
“But why this cudgel?”—“Guardian! that's the case,
“Or else to-day I had not seen this place,
“But John about the girl was so perplex'd,
“And I, to tell the truth, so mortal vex'd,
“That when he broke this crutch, and stampt and cried
“For John and Peggy, Sir, I could have died,
“Aye, that I could; for she was such a child,
“So tractable, so sensible, so mild,

201

“That if between you roguery had grown
“(Begging your pardon,) 'twould have been your own;
“She would not hurt a fly.—So off I came,
“And had I found you injuring her fame,
“And base enough to act as hundreds would,
“To ruin a poor maid—because you could,
“With this same cudgel, (you may smile or frown)
“An' please you, Sir, I meant to knock you down.”
“A burst of laughter rang throughout the Hall,
And Peggy's tongue, though overborne by all,
Pour'd its warm blessings; for, without control
The sweet unbridled transport of her soul
Was obviously seen, till Herbert's kiss
Stole, as it were, the eloquence of bliss.
“Welcome, my friends; good Gilbert, here's my hand;
“Eat, drink, or rest, they're all at your command:

202

“And whatsoever pranks the rest may play,
“You still shall be the hero of the day,
“Doubts might torment, and blunders may have teaz'd,
“Let my ale cure them; let us all be pleas'd.
“And as for honest John, let me defend
“The father of my new, my bosom friend;
“You broke your crutch, well, well, worse luck might be,
“I'll be your crutch, John Meldrum, lean on me,
“And when your lovely daughter shall complain,
“Send Gilbert's wooden argument again.
“You still may wonder that I take a wife
“From the secluded walks of humble life,
“On reason's solid ground my love began,
“And let the wise confute it if they can.
“A girl I saw, with nature's untaught grace,
“Turn from my gaze a most engaging face;

203

“I saw her drop the tear, I knew full well
“She felt for you much more than she could tell.
“I found her understanding, bright as day,
“Through all impediments still forc'd its way;
“On that foundation shall my hopes rely,
“The rock of genuine humility.
“Call'd as she is to act a nobler part,
“To rule my household, and to share my heart,
“I trust her prudence, confident to prove
“Days of delight, and still unfading love;
“And, while her inborn tenderness survives,
“That heav'nly charm of mothers and of wives,
“I'll look for joy:—But see, the neighbours all
“Come posting on to share the festival;
“And I'm determin'd, while the sun's so bright,
“That this shall be a wedding-day outright:

204

“How cheerly sound the bells! my charmer, come,
“Partake their joy, and know yourself at home.
“Sit down, good John;”—“I will,” the old man cried,
“And let me drink to you, Sir, and the bride;
“My blessing on you: I am lame and old,
“I can't make speeches, and I wo'n't be bold;
“But from my soul I wish and wish again,
“That brave good gentlemen would not disdain
“The poor, because they're poor: for, if they live
“Midst crimes that parents never can forgive,
“If, like the forest beast, they wander wild,
“To rob a father, or to crush a child,
“Nature will speak, aye, just as Nature feels,
“And wish—a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels.”

205

SHOOTER'S HILL .

I

Health! I seek thee;—dost thou love
The mountain-top or quiet vale,
Or deign o'er humbler hills to rove
On showery June's dark south-west gale?
If so, I'll meet all blasts that blow,
With silent step, but not forlorn;
Though, goddess, at thy shrine I bow,
And woo thee each returning morn.

206

II

I seek thee where, with all his might,
The joyous bird his rapture tells,
Amidst the half-excluded light,
That gilds the fox-glove's pendant bells;
Where cheerly up the bold hill's side
The deep'ning groves triumphant climb;
In groves Delight and Peace abide,
And Wisdom marks the lapse of time.

III

To hide me from the public eye,
To keep the throne of Reason clear,
Amidst fresh air to breathe or die,
I took my staff and wander'd here:
Suppressing every sigh that heaves,
And coveting no wealth but thee,
I nestle in the honied leaves,
And hug my stolen liberty.

207

IV

O'er eastward uplands, gay or rude,
Along to Erith's ivied spire,
I start, with strength and hope renew'd,
And cherish life's rekindling fire.
Now measure vales with straining eyes,
Now trace the church-yard's humble names;
Or, climb brown heaths, abrupt that rise,
And overlook the winding Thames.

V

I love to mark the flow'ret's eye,
To rest where pebbles form my bed,
Where shapes and colours scatter'd lie,
In varying millions round my head.
The soul rejoices when alone,
And feels her glorious empire free;
Sees God in every shining stone,
And revels in variety.

208

VI

Ah me! perhaps within my sight,
Deep in the smiling dales below,
Gigantic talents, Heav'n's pure light,
And all the rays of genius glow
In some lone soul, whom no one sees
With power and will to say “Arise,”
Or chase away the slow disease,
And Want's foul picture from his eyes.

VII

A worthier man by far than I,
With more of industry and fire,
Shall see fair Virtue's meed pass by,
Without one spark of fame expire!
Bleed not my heart, it will be so,
The throb of care was thine full long;
Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe,
And pour abroad the joyful song.

209

VIII

Sweet Health, I seek thee! hither bring
Thy balm that softens human ills;
Come, on the long-drawn clouds that fling
Their shadows o'er the Surry-Hills.
Yon green-topt hills, and far away
Where late as now I freedom stole,
And spent one dear delicious day
On thy wild banks, romantic Mole.

IX

Aye, there's the scene! beyond the sweep
Of London's congregated cloud,
The dark-brow'd wood, the headlong steep,
And valley-paths without a crowd!
Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides,
Thy thousand sails am proud to see;
But where the Mole all silent glides
Dwells Peace—and Peace is wealth to me!

210

X

Of Cambrian mountains still I dream,
And mouldering vestiges of war;
By time-worn cliff or classic stream
Would rove,—but Prudence holds a bar.
Come then, O Health! I'll strive to bound
My wishes to this airy stand;
'Tis not for me to trace around
The wonders of my native land.

XI

Yet, the loud torrent's dark retreat,
Yet Grampian hills shall Fancy give,
And, towering in her giddy seat,
Amidst her own creation live,
Live, if thou'lt urge my climbing feet,
Give strength of nerve and vigorous breath,
If not, with dauntless soul I meet
The deep solemnity of death.

211

XII

This far-seen monumental tower
Records th' achievements of the brave,
And Angria's subjugated power,
Who plunder'd on the eastern wave.
I would not that such turrets rise
To point out where my bones are laid;
Save that some wandering bard might prize
The comforts of its bread cool shade.

XIII

O Vanity! since thou'rt decreed
Companion of our lives to be,
I'll seek the moral songster's meed,
An earthly immortality;
Most vain!—O let me, from the past
Remembering what to man is given,
Lay Virtue's broad foundations fast,
Whose glorious turrets reach to Hea'ven.

Sickness may be often an incentive to poetical composition; I found it so; and I esteem the following lines only because they remind me of past feelings, which I would not willingly forget.

Box-Hill, and the beautiful neighhourhood of Dorking, in Surry

213

MARY'S EVENING SIGH.

I

How bright with pearl the western sky
How glorious far and wide,
Yon lines of golden clouds that lie
So peaceful side by side!
Their deep'ning tints, the arch of light,
All eyes with rapture see;
E'en while I sigh I bless the sight
That lures my love from me.

214

II

Green hill, that shad'st the valley here,
Thou bear'st upon thy brow
The only wealth to Mary dear,
And all she'll ever know.
There, in the crimson light I see,
Above thy summit rise,
My Edward's form, he looks to me
A statue in the skies.

III

Descend, my love, the hour is come,
Why linger on the hill?
The sun hath left my quiet home,
But thou can'st see him still;
Yet why a lonely wanderer stray,
Alone the joy pursue?
The glories of the closing day
Can charm thy Mary too.

215

IV

Dear Edward, when we stroll'd along
Beneath the waving corn,
And both confess'd the power of song,
And bless'd the dewy morn;
Your eye o'erflow'd, “How sweet,” you cried,
(My presence then could move)
“How sweet, with Mary by my side,
“To gaze and talk of love!”

V

Thou art not false! that cannot be;
Yet I my rivals deem
Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree,
The silence, and the stream;
Whate'er, my love, detams thee now,
I'll yet forgive thy stay;
But with to-morrow's dawn come thou,
We'll brush the dews away.

217

BARNHAM WATER.

I

Fresh from the Hall of Bounty sprung ,
With glowing heart and ardent eye,
With song and rhyme upon my tongue,
And fairy visions dancing by,
The mid-day sun in all his pow'r
The backward valley painted gay;
Mine was a road without a flower,
Where one small streamlet cross'd the way.

218

II

What was it rous'd my soul to love?
What made the simple brook so dear?
It glided like the weary dove,
And never brook seem'd half so clear.
Cool pass'd the current o'er my feet,
Its shelving brink for rest was made,
But every charm was incomplete,
For Barnham Water wants a shade.

III

There, faint beneath the fervid sun,
I gaz'd in ruminating mood;
For who can see the current run
And snatch no feast of mental food?
“Keep pure thy soul,” it seem'd to say,
“Keep that fair path by wisdom trod,
“That thou may'st hope to wind thy way,
“To fame worth boasting, and to God.”

219

IV

Long and delightful was the dream,
A waking dream that Fancy yields,
Till with regret I left the stream,
And plung'd across the barren fields;
To where of old rich abbeys smil'd
In all the pomp of gothic taste,
By fond tradition proudly styl'd,
The mighty “City in the East.”

V

Near, on a slope of burning sand,
The shepherd boys had met to play,
To hold the plains at their command,
And mark the trav'ller's leafless way.
The trav'ller with a cheerful look
Would every pining thought forbear,
If boughs but shelter'd Barnham brook
He'd stop and leave his blessing there.

220

VI

The Danish mounds of partial green,
Still, as each mouldering tower decays,
Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene
Proclaim their wond'rous length of days,
My burning feet, my aching sight,
Demanded rest,—why did I weep?
The moon arose, and such a night!
Good Heav'n! it was a sin to sleep.

VII

All rushing came thy hallow'd sighs,
Sweet Melancholy, from my breast;
“'Tis here that eastern greatness lies,
“That Might, Renown, and Wisdom rest!
“Here funeral rites the priesthood gave
“To chiefs who sway'd prodigious powers,
“The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave,
“From Framlingham's imperial towers.”

221

VIII

Full of the mighty deeds of yore,
I bade good night the trembling beam;
Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar,
Of what but slaughter could I dream?
Bless'd be that night, that trembling beam,
Peaceful excursions Fancy made;
All night I heard the bubbling stream,
Yet, Barnham Water wants a shade.

IX

Whatever hurts my country's fame,
When wits and mountaineers deride,
To me grows serious, for I name
My native plains and streams with pride.
No mountain charms have I to sing,
No loftier minstrel's rights invade;
From trifles oft my raptures spring;
—Sweet Barnham Water wants a shade.

On a sultry afternoon, late in the summer of 1802, Euston-Hall lay in my way to Thetford, which place I did not reach until the evening, on a visit to my sister: the lines lose much of their interest except they could be read on the spot, or at least at a corresponding season of the year

223

A VISIT TO RANELAGH.

I

To Ranelagh, once in my life,
By good-natur'd force I was driv'n;
The nations had ceas'd their long strife,
And Peace beam'd her radiance from Heav'n
What wonders were there to be found
That a clown might enjoy or disdain?
First we trac'd the gay ring all around,
Aye—and then we went round it again.

224

II

A thousand feet rustled on mats,
A carpet that once had been green;
Men bow'd with their outlandish hats,
With corners so fearfully keen!
Fair maids, who at home in their haste
Had left all clothing else but a train,
Swept the floor clean, as slowly they pac'd,
And then—walk'd round and swept it again.

III

The music was truly enchanting!
Right glad was I when I came near it;
But in fashion I found I was wanting:—
'Twas the fashion to walk and not hear it!
A fine youth, as beauty beset him,
Look'd smilingly round on the train;
“The king's nephew,” they cried, as they met him
Then—we went round and met him again.

225

IV

Huge paintings of Heroes and Peace
Seem'd to smile at the sound of the fiddle,
Proud to fill up each tall shining space
Round the lanthorn that stood in the middle.
And George's head too; Heav'n screen him!
May he finish in peace his long reign!
And what did we when we had seen him?
Why—went round and saw him again.

V

A bell rang, announcing new pleasures,
A crowd in an instant prest hard,
Feathers nodded, perfumes shed their treasures,
Round a door that led into the yard.
'Twas peopled all o'er in a minute,
As a white flock would cover a plain!
We had seen every soul that was in it,
Then we went round and saw them again.

226

VI

But now came a scene worth the showing,
The fireworks! midst laughs and huzzas,
With explosions the sky was all glowing,
Then down stream'd a million of stars;
With a rush the bright rockets ascended,
Wheels spurted blue fires like a rain;
We turn'd with regret when 'twas ended,
Then—star'd at each other again.

VII

There thousands of gay lamps aspir'd
To the tops of the trees and beyond;
And, what was most hugely admir'd,
They look'd all up-side-down in a pond!
The blaze scarce an eagle could bear;
And an owl had most surely been slain;
We return'd to the circle, and there—
And there we went round it again.

227

VIII

'Tis not wisdom to love without reason,
Or to censure without knowing why:
I had witness'd no crime, nor no treason,
“O life, 'tis thy picture,” said I.
'Tis just thus we saunter along,
Months and years bring their pleasure or pain;
We sigh midst the right and the wrong;
—And then we go round them again!

A grand Fete, in honour of the peace of 1802.

The intervals between the pillars in the centre of the Rotunda were filled up by transparent paintings.

229

THE WOODLAND HALLÓ.

(PERHAPS) ADAPTED FOR MUSIC.

I

In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,
I am mistress, no mother have I;
Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,
And kind is my lover hard by;
They both work together beneath the green shade,
Both woodmen, my father and Joe:
Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made
So much of a laugh or—Halló.

230

II

From my basket at noon they expect their supply,
And with joy from my threshold I spring;
For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high,
And Echo that sings as I sing.
Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food,
As I call the dear name of my Joe;
His musical shout is the pride of the wood,
And my heart leaps to hear the—Halló.

III

Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease,
I wish not to wander from you;
I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees,
For I know that my Joe will be true.
The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove,
Are charms that I'll never forego;
But resting through life on the bosom of love,
Will remember the Woodland Halló.

231

ODE TO PEACE.

WRITTEN ON THE RATIFICATION OF THE PRELIMINARIES, IN 1802.

I

Halt! ye Legions, sheathe your Steel:
Blood grows precious; shed no more:
Cease your toils; your wounds to heal,
Lo! beams of Mercy reach the shore!
From Realms of everlasting light
The favour'd guest of Heaven is come:
Prostrate your Banners at the sight,
And bear the glorious tidings home.

232

II

The plunging corpse, with half-clos'd eyes,
No more shall stain th' unconscious brine;
Yon pendant gay that streaming flies,
Around its idle Staff shall twine.
Behold! along th'ethereal sky
Her beams o'er conquering Navies spread;
Peace! Peace! the leaping Sailors cry,
With shouts that might arouse the dead.

III

Then forth Britannia's thunder pours;
A vast reiterated sound!
From Line to Line the Cannon roars,
And spreads the blazing joy around.
Return, ye brave! your Country calls;
Return, return, your task is done:
While here the tear of transport falls,
To grace your Laurels nobly won.

233

IV

Albion Cliffs—from age to age,
That bear the roaring storms of Heaven,
Did ever fiercer Warfare rage,
Was ever Peace more timely given?
Wake, sounds of Joy! rouse, generous Isle!
Let every patriot bosom glow.
Beauty, resume thy wonted smile,
And, Poverty, thy cheerful brow.

V

Boast, Britain, of thy glorious Guests;
Peace, Wealth, and Commerce, all thine own
Still on contented Labour rests
The basis of a lasting Throne.
Shout, Poverty! 'tis Heaven that saves;
Protected Wealth, the chorus raise,
Ruler of War, of Winds, and Waves,
Accept a prostrate Nation's praise.

235

LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.

WRITTEN AT CLARE-HALL, HERTS, JUNE, 1804.

I

Welcome silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holv shade!
Thus I prove, as years Increase,
My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief
While rapture's gushing tears descend,
That every flower and every leaf
Is moral Truth's unerring friend.

236

II

I would not for a world of gold
That Nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;
Pure source of intellectual fire!
Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,
Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,
Shall sweet retirement render strong,
And morning silence bring to life.

III

Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.
I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield Reason's most supreme delight

237

IV

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To Rural Gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,
That one Great Spirit governs all.
O Heaven permit that I may lie
Where o'er my corse green branches wave;
And those who from life's tumult fly
With kindred feelings press my grave.