University of Virginia Library

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OLDEN TIMES.

DEDICATED, WITH MUCH RESPECT, TO JUVENILE ANTIQUARIANS.

The fields with corn are rich and deep,
Which only he who sows can reap;
And in old woodlands' grassy lea
Are cattle grazing peacefully;—

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And hamlet homes in valleys low
Fear neither famine, fire, nor foe.
A thousand busy towns are rife
With prosperous sounds of trade and life,
And bustling crowds are in the streets,
Where man is friend with all he meets,
No need is there of city wall,
Nor gates to shut at evening fall;
For, know ye not, the land I praise
Is England in these happy days!
It was not thus in wood and wold—
It was not thus in times of old;
Where waves the corn the red fern bowed
On heathy turf that ne'er was ploughed;
And boundless tracts were covered o'er
With mossy bog and barren moor;
The green hill-slopes, the pastoral lea,
Were shadowed by the forest tree;
And herds of deer, of nought afraid,
Went bounding through the greenwood shade;
And 'mong the leafy boughs above,
Loud screamed the jay, and cooed the dove;
The squirrel sprang from tree to tree,
The timid badger gamboled free,
And the red fox barked dismally;

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And the grim wolf, at close of day,
Made the lone mountain herds his prey.
Then fasts were held, and prayers were said
When knight or yeoman journeyed,
For peril great was on the road,
Where'er a daring traveller trode;
And ever as they came or went,
Before the way-side cross they bent,
Their beads to tell, their prayers to say,
And crave protection for the way.
Yet, save when quiet woodmen past
Silently through the forest vast,
Or hermit stole from out his cell
Down to some holy way-side well,
Or portly monk in habit gray,
And long black cowl, rode by the way,
Or pilgrim went, with staff in hand,
To some famed shrine across the land,
But rarely man had man in view,
For travellers in this land were few.
Yet at times upon the breeze was borne
The gallant sound of hunter's horn,
And barons from their halls came forth
With leashed hounds and sounds of mirth;
And dames in quaint, embroidered dresses,
And hooded hawks with bells and jesses;

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With yeomen bold a thousand strong,
Careered right gallantly along.
And at times, stout men, like Robin Hood,
With outlawed dwellers of the wood,
With their merry men, clad all in green,
A hunting in the woods were seen.

Not then each golden harvest-field
Was reaped for him whose toil had tilled;
Little was recked of cruel wrong—
The weak man laboured for the strong;
And civil war fierce ruin wrought,
And battles, many a one, were fought;
And the old remnants of the slain
Moulder on hill, and heath, and plain.
Then learning was of little note,
And, saving monks, none read or wrote;
And even kings, with nought of shame,
Confessed they could not sign their name!
Then ladies' lives were dull, for they
Wrought tapestry-work from day to day;
And peasant-women, brown with toil,
Tilled with the men the barren soil.
Then towns were few, and small, and lone,
Enclosed with massy walls of stone;

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And at each street an outer gate,
To shut before the day grew late;
And not a lamp might give its light
After the curfew rang at night.
And if perchance it happened so
That a traveller came on journey slow,
In scarlet cloak and leathern belt,
And high-crowned hat of sable felt,
And huge jack-boots, and iron spur,
Riding, the king's grave messenger,
How stared the townsfolk, half aghast,
As solemnly he onward passed
To the low hostel, built of wood!
And how in wondering groups they stood,
With questionings poured out amain,
To see him journey forth again!

Another day of blither cheer
Might come, some three times in the year,
When the customed traders came with packs
Of needful things on horses' backs;
With jingling bells to the leader's rein,
Sounding afar on the narrow lane;—
A long array of near a score,
With armed riders on before;

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And the men of trade with visage thin,
In travelling-caps of badger skin,
And rough huge cloaks, and ponderous gear
Of arms and trappings, closed the rear.
On went they, guests of special grace,
On to the little market-place;—
And quickly might be purchased there
From the Sheffieldman his cutler-ware;
And winter garb and woollen vest
From the sturdy weaver of the West;
And scarlet hose and broidered shoon,
And wooden bowl and horny spoon;
Buckles and belts, and caps of hide,
And a thousand other things beside,
Till the townsfolk had laid in their store,
And the traders could sell nothing more.
Then at dawn of day, the sober train
Set out upon their way again;
Travelling on by dale and down,
Warily to some distant town—
Or to some dark, gray castle tall,
Guarded with drawbridge, moat, and wall;
With porter stern and blood-hounds grim,
With towers of strength and dungeons dim;
Where minstrels stood with pipes to play,
And a jester gibed the live-long day;—

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Or to halt in some green vale, before
The monastery's Gothic door,
To meekly ask, with speaking eye,
What the Lord Abbot chose to buy—
Or ermine soft, or linen fine,
Or precious flasks of foreign wine?