Harvest-Home (1805) :: :: University of Virginia Library

A couple, tir'd of public life,
Withdrew at length from all its strife;
And, blest with fair and well-earn'd gain,
Resolv'd to settle on the plain;
So built an unpresuming cot
On fertile Hampshire's happiest spot:—
They boasted many a loftier dome,
But here they felt themselves at home.

A rhyming Friend of theirs had long
Built many a pretty Cot in Song;
But, too poetical in purse,
Could only run them up in verse;
And though they cut a dash on paper,
Are unsubstantial as a vapour;
Frail as a house of cards, which boys
Erect, and which a puff destroys.

This Man of Rhyme, from various care,
At length fell sick, and wanted air;
For thought he could not sleep a wink,
So 'twas prescrib'd he must not think;

The doctors bid him only play,
And give his Muse a holiday :
On this our Couple, good and kind,
Begg'd he would leave his Muse behind.

“Dear Bard,” said they, “quick leave the town,
The Pool mail-coach will set you down
Near to our garden's rustic gate,
Come then and share our tranquil state;
But first, my tuneful Friend, be sure
You can such solitude endure.

“To you, who love a calm retreat,
Our Forest-Hut will seem most sweet;
For there, in undisturb'd repose,
You may in dormouse-fashion doze;
And shelter'd 'mongst our forest trees,—
Just freshen'd by the ocean breeze,
That visits Southton now and then,
Comes with the tide, then goes again;—
You, with a rustic and his wife,
Like them may taste a cotter's life.
Yet still we must repeat—Be sure
You can such solitude endure.”

“World-weary souls are we, who fly
To forests from society;
Our household is one little maid,
Fit for a couple in the shade:

We likewise boast a little man,
But still upon the simple plan,
Just knows his left hand from his right,
And when 'tis day and when t'is night.
A little dog who loves to sleep,
Which doth our Cot more silent keep;
And if he barks he barks so sweet,
The echo thinks it quite a treat;
We also keep a pair of cats,
Black as a pair of new-made hats;
Yet both so still about the house,
That each you might suppose a mouse;
And for the rest, our bucks and does,
That silent trot along in rows,
Are scarcely than ourselves more dumb;
Which makes us call our Cottage Mum.
Yet if, dear Bard, you'll dare to dwell
In such a hermit kind of cell,
Where all around you are at rest,
We pr'ythee haste to be our guest:
But still we say once more—Be sure
You can such solitude endure.”

Enamour'd of the sylvan scene,
And Nature's charming ray serene,
Where, in soft shade and green retreat,
Health and Contentment fix their seat,
Detesting all the noisy jars
Of private or of public wars;
Detesting too the miser's care,
The vain man's pomp, the coxcomb's glare,

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And all the pageantry of life,
Which keep the world in constant strife;
Enamour'd too of those pure hours,
Whose white wings are perfum'd by flowers;
Our Bard, with a desiring sigh,
Pray'd for those wings more swift to fly;
But, wanting those, fair Fancy brought,
Which serv'd as well, the Wings of Thought;
These bore him instant to a Cot,
Yet far as ever from the spot;
And so to reach the place indeed,
By the best mode of mortal speed,
Than Fancy's Pinions scarcely less,
He took the Mail for the Recess.

But how to leave the Muse behind,—
For she, a part of Poet's Mind,
—A fact unknown to men of prose,—
Attends the Bard where'er he goes;
In her, as the warm wheel turn'd round,
A fellow-traveller he found,
And so he begg'd her for a song,
To charm him as he rode along.
“Something,” said he, “in praise of flowers,
And woods profound, and waving bowers,
A quiet cot and leafy cell,
Where like a hermit I shall dwell;
While sacred Silence takes her round,
A forester, to guard the bound.

“O aid, dear Muse, when I get there!”
—'Twas thus he ended with a prayer,—

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“Assist me with thy warmest lay,
The debt of gratitude to pay,
To Quietude an ode inspire,
Yet scarcely seem to touch the lyre;
Let airs Æolian round me move,
Sweet as the voice of whisper'd love;
And oh! another note to thee,
Joy of my life, Tranquillity;
Tranquillity, for which I roam,
In hopes to find one peaceful home.”

Approaching near, he saw the wood ,
Which many a century has stood;
The pride of many a Baron bold,
Bower within bower a thousand fold!
And now the deer before him bound,
“I'm here,” he cried, “on holy ground;
Ah sacred shades, my soul invest,
And sick of crowds, O let me rest!”
The Muse so rag'd in every vein,
Scarce could the coach our Bard contain;
In ev'ry branch of every tree
He thought he saw Tranquillity.

At length the hospitable Pair
Receiv'd him with Affection's care:—
“Since then you tell us, you are sure
You can our solitude endure,
Welcome, thrice welcome, Man of Rhyme!
Mayst thou serenely pass thy time!
Yes, welcome to a woodland life,
With a plain cotter and his wife;

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Through the wide forest mayst thou roam
For rides and walks, but this thy home,
A still and calm, though dull recess,—
But Quiet sure is Happiness.”

He scarce was seated, when there came
To dine a neighbour and his dame;
And, later in the self-same day,
Popp'd in a traveller on his way;
And yet a fourth till twilight staid
With man and wife and cottage maid.
Next morning brought some faces new,
Then more to chat an hour or two;
And yet another that way bends,
And then a chariot full of friends,
Begirt with cherub children fair,
Who came to breathe the forest air.
Last came a lady in a gig,
And all were merry as a grig,
And kept it up from morn to night,—
In truth it was a bustling sight:
“Zooks!” quoth our Bard, “we here have got
A thronging city in a cot;
I might have left the Muse behind,
For deuce a moment do I find,
Either without doors or within,
She could a single verse begin;
And, 'faith, the Goddess I must tell,
I like the forest life so well,
Unless she comes to laugh and play,
It were as well she stay'd away;
All things are better order'd here,
For health, for pleasure, and good cheer.

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“Now, as to Helicon's proud Mount,
Of which the Poets make account,
And their far-fam'd Castalian stream,
They're both skim-milk to Forest cream;
Yet glassy brook and purling rill
I wish of my acquaintance still;
And, when well mix'd with malt and hop,
My Verse shall celebrate each drop;
And for their gay Parnassian Steed,
Give me a pad of Forest breed,
Just such a nag as here I stride;
When for an appetite I ride,
Aye and the thing I ride for get,
For both of us return sharp set;
And as he nimbly trots along,
Shows me the theme and aids the song,
Where yellow furze and purple heath,
And many a flow'ret peeps beneath,
Or takes me to the bower or cot,
And lets me draw them on the spot.

“So, in few words, my Lady Muse,
If to assist me you refuse,
Or think'st to keep me poor and pale,
Henceforth my Nectar shall be Ale;
My Inspiration shall be Wine,
One Forest Brimmer's worth the Nine!
And if I needs must run the course,
It shall be on—my Hobby Horse!”

The beneficial effects of this excursion to the New Forest have been already mentioned by the Author in plain honest prose, confirmatory of those poetic effusions, no less honest and faithful as to the fact.

New Forest.