 | British georgics |  |
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BRITISH GEORGICS.
JANUARY.
All Nature feels the renovating force
Of Winter, only to the thoughtless eye
In ruin seen. The frost-concocted glebe
Draws in abundant vegetable soul,
And gathers vigour for the coming year.
Thomson.
Of Winter, only to the thoughtless eye
In ruin seen. The frost-concocted glebe
Draws in abundant vegetable soul,
And gathers vigour for the coming year.
Thomson.
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ARGUMENT.
Short sketch of the subject.—Shortness of the day— Address to Night—Morning of the first day of the year—Cessation of labour—Conviviality and joy of the day—Some labours cannot be delayed— Feeding cattle and sheep—Examine fences—Shelter derived from fences—Improvement of climate from fences—Hedges preferable in this respect to walls —Illustration of this—Objection to hedges and belts answered—A heavier fall of snow—Morning— Threshers—Storm of snow—Shepherd out with his flock in the night—Snow scene in clear weather— Driving manure and lime—Care of horses—Bedding —Suppering—Hen-roost—Foumart—A serene morning and day—Effects of sun on sheltered spots —Ice scenes—Bonspiel between rival districts— Cottage fireside scene in the evening—Reading— This scene not fictitious in Scotland—Parish schools—Appeal on the advantages of public instruction —Remonstrance with those who lately opposed the principle of parish schools in England.
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The labours of the plough, the various toils
That, still returning with the changeful year,
Demand the husbandman's and cottar's care;
The joys and troubles of the peasant's life;
His days and nights of festive mirth, that serve,
Though few, yet long foreseen, remembered long,
To lighten every task; his rural sports
Afield, at home; the fickle season's signs;
The varying face of nature, wood, and stream,
And sky, and fruitful field,—these now I sing.
That, still returning with the changeful year,
Demand the husbandman's and cottar's care;
The joys and troubles of the peasant's life;
His days and nights of festive mirth, that serve,
Though few, yet long foreseen, remembered long,
To lighten every task; his rural sports
Afield, at home; the fickle season's signs;
The varying face of nature, wood, and stream,
And sky, and fruitful field,—these now I sing.
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The wintry sun shoots forth a feeble glimpse,
Then yields his short-lived empire to the night.
Hail, Night! pavilioned 'neath a rayless cope,
I love thy solemn state, profoundly dark;
Thy sable pall; thy lurid throne of clouds,
Viewless save by the lightning's flash; thy crown
That boasts no starry gem; thy various voice,
That to the heart, with eloquence divine,
Now in soft whispers, now in thunder speaks.
Not undelightful is thy reign to him
Who wakeful gilds, with reveries bright, thy gloom,
Or listens to the music of the storm,
And meditates on Him who sways its course:
Thy solemn state I love, yet joyful greet
The long-expected dawn's ambiguous light
That faintly pencils out the horizon's verge.
Then yields his short-lived empire to the night.
Hail, Night! pavilioned 'neath a rayless cope,
I love thy solemn state, profoundly dark;
Thy sable pall; thy lurid throne of clouds,
Viewless save by the lightning's flash; thy crown
That boasts no starry gem; thy various voice,
That to the heart, with eloquence divine,
Now in soft whispers, now in thunder speaks.
Not undelightful is thy reign to him
Who wakeful gilds, with reveries bright, thy gloom,
Or listens to the music of the storm,
And meditates on Him who sways its course:
Thy solemn state I love, yet joyful greet
The long-expected dawn's ambiguous light
That faintly pencils out the horizon's verge.
Long ere the lingering dawn of that blithe morn
Which ushers in the year, the roosting cock,
Flapping his wings, repeats his larum shrill;
But on that morn no busy flail obeys
His rousing call; no sounds but sounds of joy
Salute the year,—the first-foot's entering step,
That sudden on the floor is welcome heard,
Ere blushing maids have braided up their hair;
The laugh, the hearty kiss, the good new year
Pronounced with honest warmth. In village, grange,
And burrow town, the steaming flaggon, borne
From house to house, elates the poor man's heart,
And makes him feel that life has still its joys.
The aged and the young, man, woman, child,
Unite in social glee; even stranger dogs,
Meeting with bristling back, soon lay aside
Their snarling aspect, and in sportive chace,
Excursive scour, or wallow in the snow.
With sober cheerfulness, the grandam eyes
Her offspring round her, all in health and peace;
And, thankful that she's spared to see this day
Return once more, breathes low a secret prayer,
That God would shed a blessing on their heads.
Which ushers in the year, the roosting cock,
Flapping his wings, repeats his larum shrill;
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His rousing call; no sounds but sounds of joy
Salute the year,—the first-foot's entering step,
That sudden on the floor is welcome heard,
Ere blushing maids have braided up their hair;
The laugh, the hearty kiss, the good new year
Pronounced with honest warmth. In village, grange,
And burrow town, the steaming flaggon, borne
From house to house, elates the poor man's heart,
And makes him feel that life has still its joys.
The aged and the young, man, woman, child,
Unite in social glee; even stranger dogs,
Meeting with bristling back, soon lay aside
Their snarling aspect, and in sportive chace,
Excursive scour, or wallow in the snow.
With sober cheerfulness, the grandam eyes
Her offspring round her, all in health and peace;
And, thankful that she's spared to see this day
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That God would shed a blessing on their heads.
Thus morning passes, till, far south, the sun
Shines dimly through the drift, and warning gives,
That all the day must not be idly spent.
Some works brook not delay; the stake, the stall,
And fold, at this rough season, most demand
Assiduous care; the sheep-rack must be filled
With liberal arms, and, from the turnip field,
A plenteous load should spread the boulted snow;
While winterers, by hedge or bush that cowr,
Expect their wonted sheaf.
Shines dimly through the drift, and warning gives,
That all the day must not be idly spent.
Some works brook not delay; the stake, the stall,
And fold, at this rough season, most demand
Assiduous care; the sheep-rack must be filled
With liberal arms, and, from the turnip field,
A plenteous load should spread the boulted snow;
While winterers, by hedge or bush that cowr,
Expect their wonted sheaf.
Throughout this month
Much it imports your fences to survey;
For oft the heifers, tempted by the view
Of some green spot, where springs ooze out, and thaw
The falling flakes as fast as they alight,
Bound o'er the hedge; or at neglected gaps
Burst scrambling through, and widen every breach.
A stake put timely in, or whinny bush,
Until the season come when living plants
May fill the vacant space, much harm prevents.
Much it imports your fences to survey;
For oft the heifers, tempted by the view
Of some green spot, where springs ooze out, and thaw
The falling flakes as fast as they alight,
Bound o'er the hedge; or at neglected gaps
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A stake put timely in, or whinny bush,
Until the season come when living plants
May fill the vacant space, much harm prevents.
Some husbandmen deem fences only formed
To guard their fields from trespass of their own,
Or neighbour's herd or flock; and lightly prize
The benefits immense which shelter brings.
Mark how, within the shelter of a hedge,
The daisy, long ere winter quits the plain,
Opens its yellow bosom to the sun.
To guard their fields from trespass of their own,
Or neighbour's herd or flock; and lightly prize
The benefits immense which shelter brings.
Mark how, within the shelter of a hedge,
The daisy, long ere winter quits the plain,
Opens its yellow bosom to the sun.
A hedge full grown, if with a hedge-row joined;
Or circling belt, the climate of your field
Improves, transmutes from bleak and shivering cold
To genial warmth: no graduated scale
Is needed to demonstrate this plain truth,
Obvious as true; for there a vivid green
Tinges your early sward, there lingers long
When winter winds have blanched the neighbouring lea.
Or circling belt, the climate of your field
Improves, transmutes from bleak and shivering cold
To genial warmth: no graduated scale
Is needed to demonstrate this plain truth,
Obvious as true; for there a vivid green
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When winter winds have blanched the neighbouring lea.
Some fences tend but little to abate
The biting cold;—the wall, unless around
A narrow field, or raised of towering height,
But small degree of sheltering warmth affords.
It is by artificial calm that fields
Are warmed; and walls but slightly check
The sweeping blast. The liquid air is ruled
By laws analogous to those which sway
The watery element:—See how a stream
Surmounts obstructing rocks, or crossing dams,
Seeming as if resistance gave new force;
But, if obstructed by a fallen tree,
Or dipping branch, smoothly it glides along
In gentler course, and dimples as it flows;
So through the pervious check of spray and twig,
The blast, impeded in its course, not turned,
Slackens its boisterous speed, and sighs along the vale.
The biting cold;—the wall, unless around
A narrow field, or raised of towering height,
But small degree of sheltering warmth affords.
It is by artificial calm that fields
Are warmed; and walls but slightly check
The sweeping blast. The liquid air is ruled
By laws analogous to those which sway
The watery element:—See how a stream
Surmounts obstructing rocks, or crossing dams,
Seeming as if resistance gave new force;
But, if obstructed by a fallen tree,
Or dipping branch, smoothly it glides along
In gentler course, and dimples as it flows;
So through the pervious check of spray and twig,
The blast, impeded in its course, not turned,
Slackens its boisterous speed, and sighs along the vale.
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Whoe'er delights in sheltered winter walks,
Or garden well protected from the blight
Of nipping winds, should cultivate the beech.
Quickly it grows, and through the year retains
Its foliage: withered though it be, yet warm,
Its very rustle warms the wint'ry blast.
Or garden well protected from the blight
Of nipping winds, should cultivate the beech.
Quickly it grows, and through the year retains
Its foliage: withered though it be, yet warm,
Its very rustle warms the wint'ry blast.
List not to him, who says that shelter'd fields
Suffer from lack of air; that corn once lodged
Is lost, if not exposed to every breeze.
True wisdom oft consists but in a choice
Of ills; and, if sometimes luxuriant crops
Are injured by an atmosphere confined,
Far oftener are they in their early stage
Protected thus from pelting rains, which else
Lay bare the roots, and save, I ween, all risque
Of growth luxuriant, or of prostrate stalks.
Suffer from lack of air; that corn once lodged
Is lost, if not exposed to every breeze.
True wisdom oft consists but in a choice
Of ills; and, if sometimes luxuriant crops
Are injured by an atmosphere confined,
Far oftener are they in their early stage
Protected thus from pelting rains, which else
Lay bare the roots, and save, I ween, all risque
Of growth luxuriant, or of prostrate stalks.
Now broadened, blinding flakes, by day, by night;
In thickening showers descend, and oft, ere morn,
The crow of chanticleer, obtusely heard,
Announces that a deeper fall has thatched
His chinky roof; the doors are half blocked up;
From house to barn the path deep buried lies;
And, nigh waist-deep sinking, the threshers wade
To ply their early task. Cheerful the sound
Of double strokes, ceasing but till the sheaf
Be turned, or new one loosed: but sorrowful
The sound of single flail; it tells that peace
Is not within our gates.
In thickening showers descend, and oft, ere morn,
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Announces that a deeper fall has thatched
His chinky roof; the doors are half blocked up;
From house to barn the path deep buried lies;
And, nigh waist-deep sinking, the threshers wade
To ply their early task. Cheerful the sound
Of double strokes, ceasing but till the sheaf
Be turned, or new one loosed: but sorrowful
The sound of single flail; it tells that peace
Is not within our gates.
All out-door work
Now stands; the waggoner, with wisp-wound feet,
And wheelspokes almost filled, his destined stage
Scarcely can gain. O'er hill, and vale, and wood,
Sweeps the snow-pinioned blast, and all things veils
In white array, disguising to the view
Objects well known, now faintly recognized.
One colour clothes the mountain and the plain,
Save where the feathery flakes melt as they fall
Upon the deep blue stream, or scowling lake;
Or where some beetling rock o'erjutting hangs
Above the vaulty precipice's cove.
Formless, the pointed cairn now scarce o'ertops
The level dreary waste; and coppice woods,
Diminished of their height, like bushes seem.
With stooping heads, turned from the storm, the flocks,
Onward still urged by man and dog, escape
The smothering drift, while, skulking at a side,
Is seen the fox, with close down-folded tail,
Watching his time to seize a straggling prey;
Or from some lofty crag he ominous howls,
And makes approaching night more dismal fall.
Now stands; the waggoner, with wisp-wound feet,
And wheelspokes almost filled, his destined stage
Scarcely can gain. O'er hill, and vale, and wood,
Sweeps the snow-pinioned blast, and all things veils
In white array, disguising to the view
Objects well known, now faintly recognized.
One colour clothes the mountain and the plain,
Save where the feathery flakes melt as they fall
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Or where some beetling rock o'erjutting hangs
Above the vaulty precipice's cove.
Formless, the pointed cairn now scarce o'ertops
The level dreary waste; and coppice woods,
Diminished of their height, like bushes seem.
With stooping heads, turned from the storm, the flocks,
Onward still urged by man and dog, escape
The smothering drift, while, skulking at a side,
Is seen the fox, with close down-folded tail,
Watching his time to seize a straggling prey;
Or from some lofty crag he ominous howls,
And makes approaching night more dismal fall.
But not with night's approach the shepherd's toils
Are ended; through the deep and dreary glooms,
Without one guiding star, he struggling wades
The rising wreath; till, quite o'erspent, compelled
To leave his flock to time and chance, he turns
Homeward his weary and uncertain steps,
Much doubting of his way, foreboding much.
In vain he tries to find his wonted marks,—
The hill-side fountain, with its little plat
Of verdant sward around; the well-known cairn;
The blasted branchless oak; the ancient stone
Where murdered martyrs fell, and where they lie:
In vain he lists to hear the rushing stream,
Whose winding course would lead him to his home.
O'ercome at last, yielding to treacherous rest,
He sits him down, and folds within his plaid,
In fond embrace, the sharer of his toils,
The partner of his children's infant sports.
His children! thought of them wakes new resolves
To make one last despairing effort more.
Meanwhile they, crouching round the blazing hearth,
Oft ask their mother when he will return.
She on her rocking infant looks the while,
Or, starting, thinks she hears the lifted latch;
And oft the drift comes sweeping o'er the floor,
While anxiously she looks into the storm,
Returning soon to stir the dying brands,
That with their blaze her sinking hopes revive:
Alas, her hopes are transient as that blaze,
And direful images her fancy crowd,—
The dog returning masterless; the search
By friends and kinsmen wandering far o'er moss
And moor; the sad success,—his body found
Half buried in a wreath; the opening door
To let the bearers in! ... The door is opened:
Shook from poor Yarrow's fur, a sleety mist
Is scattered round, and in his master steps.
What joy! what silent tearful joy pervades
The late despairing groupe! Round him they cling;
One doffs his stiffened plaid, and one his shoes;
Kneeling, one chafes his hands and feet benumbed:
The sleeping babe is roused to kiss its sire,
Restored past hope; and supper, long forgot,
Crowns the glad board: Nor is their evening prayer
This night omitted; fervent, full of thanks,
From glowing hearts in artless phrase it flows!
Then, simply chaunted by the parent pair,
And by the lisping choir, the song of praise,
Beneath the heath-roofed cottage in the wild,
Ascends more grateful to the heavenly throne,
Than pealing diapason, and the loud
Swelling acclaim of notes by art attuned.
Are ended; through the deep and dreary glooms,
Without one guiding star, he struggling wades
The rising wreath; till, quite o'erspent, compelled
To leave his flock to time and chance, he turns
Homeward his weary and uncertain steps,
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In vain he tries to find his wonted marks,—
The hill-side fountain, with its little plat
Of verdant sward around; the well-known cairn;
The blasted branchless oak; the ancient stone
Where murdered martyrs fell, and where they lie:
In vain he lists to hear the rushing stream,
Whose winding course would lead him to his home.
O'ercome at last, yielding to treacherous rest,
He sits him down, and folds within his plaid,
In fond embrace, the sharer of his toils,
The partner of his children's infant sports.
His children! thought of them wakes new resolves
To make one last despairing effort more.
Meanwhile they, crouching round the blazing hearth,
Oft ask their mother when he will return.
She on her rocking infant looks the while,
Or, starting, thinks she hears the lifted latch;
And oft the drift comes sweeping o'er the floor,
While anxiously she looks into the storm,
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That with their blaze her sinking hopes revive:
Alas, her hopes are transient as that blaze,
And direful images her fancy crowd,—
The dog returning masterless; the search
By friends and kinsmen wandering far o'er moss
And moor; the sad success,—his body found
Half buried in a wreath; the opening door
To let the bearers in! ... The door is opened:
Shook from poor Yarrow's fur, a sleety mist
Is scattered round, and in his master steps.
What joy! what silent tearful joy pervades
The late despairing groupe! Round him they cling;
One doffs his stiffened plaid, and one his shoes;
Kneeling, one chafes his hands and feet benumbed:
The sleeping babe is roused to kiss its sire,
Restored past hope; and supper, long forgot,
Crowns the glad board: Nor is their evening prayer
This night omitted; fervent, full of thanks,
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Then, simply chaunted by the parent pair,
And by the lisping choir, the song of praise,
Beneath the heath-roofed cottage in the wild,
Ascends more grateful to the heavenly throne,
Than pealing diapason, and the loud
Swelling acclaim of notes by art attuned.
But clearer skies succeed; the downy fall
No longer dims the welkin, and, low poised,
The sun gleams slanting o'er the beauteous waste
Of snow, here smoothing o'er each bosky bourne,
Or heaved into a mimic moveless wave,
There drifted up against some cottage wall,
In easy slope uniting with the roof.
How dazzling white the illimitable glare!
With ruby-tinted beams twinkling, till aches
The wearied eye, that vainly seeks to find
A resting-place, compelled at last to close.
No longer dims the welkin, and, low poised,
The sun gleams slanting o'er the beauteous waste
Of snow, here smoothing o'er each bosky bourne,
Or heaved into a mimic moveless wave,
There drifted up against some cottage wall,
In easy slope uniting with the roof.
How dazzling white the illimitable glare!
With ruby-tinted beams twinkling, till aches
The wearied eye, that vainly seeks to find
A resting-place, compelled at last to close.
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Soon as, by frequent hoof and wheel, the roads
A beaten path afford; 'tis time to yoke
The rested teem, and, from the neighbouring town,
To drive the well-heaped loads of rich manure;
Or, from the smoke-enveloped kilns, bring home
The fertilizing stone. Now compost mounds
Ought from their snowy covering to be cleared,
To feel the powerful influence of the frost.
A beaten path afford; 'tis time to yoke
The rested teem, and, from the neighbouring town,
To drive the well-heaped loads of rich manure;
Or, from the smoke-enveloped kilns, bring home
The fertilizing stone. Now compost mounds
Ought from their snowy covering to be cleared,
To feel the powerful influence of the frost.
But chiefly, in this rigorous month, attend
To keep the team in order for the field:
Unyoke betimes, whatever be the task,
And house them ere the disappearing sun
Shoot, as he sinks, a feeble parting glimpse.
Then see their nightly lair be warm and clean,
Of well-dried fern or straw; this profits more
Than half their food; nor is it wasteful care:
For thus, 'gainst spring's return, the strutting cock,
Proud of his height upon yon reeking pile,
Tells, as he crows, of early thriving brairds .
To keep the team in order for the field:
Unyoke betimes, whatever be the task,
And house them ere the disappearing sun
Shoot, as he sinks, a feeble parting glimpse.
Then see their nightly lair be warm and clean,
Of well-dried fern or straw; this profits more
Than half their food; nor is it wasteful care:
For thus, 'gainst spring's return, the strutting cock,
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Tells, as he crows, of early thriving brairds .
How pleasant when the smoking cribs are filled
Closing the door, to turn, with listening ear,
And hearken to the sound of busy mouths;
Then, with an upward gaze, to wander o'er
The starry host, and think that He, who rolls
Yon spheres innumerable, deigns to feed
Both man and beast, and all the fowls of heaven.
Closing the door, to turn, with listening ear,
And hearken to the sound of busy mouths;
Then, with an upward gaze, to wander o'er
The starry host, and think that He, who rolls
Yon spheres innumerable, deigns to feed
Both man and beast, and all the fowls of heaven.
O nightly miracle! to me still new,
Though long beheld: O soul-elating sight!
Stupendous record, witnessing to man
A ruling power, almighty and benign.
Though long beheld: O soul-elating sight!
Stupendous record, witnessing to man
A ruling power, almighty and benign.
Be not forgot, amid your evening cares,
To see that all be safe beneath the roof,
Where snugly, with his dames, sits chanticleer.
Each hole shut up, then every part explore,
Lest, ambushed in a corner, couches sly
The thirsty foumart, by his eyes betrayed,
That, glaring from some darksome nook, outshine
Your glimmering lamp:—with tiptoe step glide out;
Up from the fireside rouse your sleeping cur;
Haste then, not weaponless, and, followed close
By man and boy, all eager for the sport,
Rush in, and, if the fell destroyer 'scape
Your hurried ill-aimed strokes, Luath, more cool,
Will seize him fast, and lay him at your feet:
A deed remembered long on winter nights,
When scarce a fragment of the trophied scalp,
Grinning, remains to grace your stable-door.
To see that all be safe beneath the roof,
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Each hole shut up, then every part explore,
Lest, ambushed in a corner, couches sly
The thirsty foumart, by his eyes betrayed,
That, glaring from some darksome nook, outshine
Your glimmering lamp:—with tiptoe step glide out;
Up from the fireside rouse your sleeping cur;
Haste then, not weaponless, and, followed close
By man and boy, all eager for the sport,
Rush in, and, if the fell destroyer 'scape
Your hurried ill-aimed strokes, Luath, more cool,
Will seize him fast, and lay him at your feet:
A deed remembered long on winter nights,
When scarce a fragment of the trophied scalp,
Grinning, remains to grace your stable-door.
Ruddy is now the dawning as in June,
And clear and blue the vault of noon-tide sky:
Nor is the slanting orb of day unfelt.
From sunward rocks, the icicle's faint drop,
By lonely river-side, is heard at times
To break the silence deep; for now the stream
Is mute, or faintly gurgles far below
Its frozen ceiling: silent stands the mill,
The wheel immoveable, and shod with ice.
The babbling rivulet, at each little slope,
Flows scantily beneath a lucid veil,
And seems a pearly current liquified;
While, at the shelvy side, in thousand shapes
Fantastical, the frostwork domes uprear
Their tiny fabrics, gorgeously superb
With ornaments beyond the reach of art:
Here vestibules of state, and colonnades;
There Gothic castles, grottos, heathen fanes,
Rise in review, and quickly disappear;
Or through some fairy palace fancy roves,
And studs, with ruby lamps, the fretted roof;
Or paints with every colour of the bow
Spotless parterres, all freakt with snow-white flowers,
Flowers that no archetype in nature own;
Or spreads the spiky crystals into fields
Of bearded grain, rustling in autumn breeze.
And clear and blue the vault of noon-tide sky:
Nor is the slanting orb of day unfelt.
From sunward rocks, the icicle's faint drop,
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To break the silence deep; for now the stream
Is mute, or faintly gurgles far below
Its frozen ceiling: silent stands the mill,
The wheel immoveable, and shod with ice.
The babbling rivulet, at each little slope,
Flows scantily beneath a lucid veil,
And seems a pearly current liquified;
While, at the shelvy side, in thousand shapes
Fantastical, the frostwork domes uprear
Their tiny fabrics, gorgeously superb
With ornaments beyond the reach of art:
Here vestibules of state, and colonnades;
There Gothic castles, grottos, heathen fanes,
Rise in review, and quickly disappear;
Or through some fairy palace fancy roves,
And studs, with ruby lamps, the fretted roof;
Or paints with every colour of the bow
Spotless parterres, all freakt with snow-white flowers,
Flowers that no archetype in nature own;
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Of bearded grain, rustling in autumn breeze.
Upon the river's brink the schoolboy stands,
And, hesitating, eyes the clear expanse
Of solid water. First, a stone he throws,—
It o'er the elastic surface, ringing, bounds
With frequent leap, then smoothly glides along;
Cautious he forward steps, starting dismayed,
To hear, as if a rent struck upward far,
And see beneath his foot the dialled ice.
Fear not, poor elf; but venturing enjoy
Thy harmless pastime: yielding ice is strong,
And safer still as farther from the shore.
Or, heedful of the fond parental fears,
Wait patient till another starry night
Has, in that frozen mirror-plate, beheld
Another galaxy inverted shine.
'Tis then deep shoots the penetrating power,
Compacting hard, o'er brook and river wide,
A seamless pavement, luculent yet strong.
And, hesitating, eyes the clear expanse
Of solid water. First, a stone he throws,—
It o'er the elastic surface, ringing, bounds
With frequent leap, then smoothly glides along;
Cautious he forward steps, starting dismayed,
To hear, as if a rent struck upward far,
And see beneath his foot the dialled ice.
Fear not, poor elf; but venturing enjoy
Thy harmless pastime: yielding ice is strong,
And safer still as farther from the shore.
Or, heedful of the fond parental fears,
Wait patient till another starry night
Has, in that frozen mirror-plate, beheld
Another galaxy inverted shine.
'Tis then deep shoots the penetrating power,
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A seamless pavement, luculent yet strong.
But chiefly is the power of frost displayed
Upon the lake's crystalline broad expanse,
Wherein the whole reflected hemisphere
Majestically glows, and the full sweep,
From pole to pole, of shooting star is seen:
Or when the noon-day sun illumes the scene,
And mountain hoar, tree, bush, and margin reed,
Are imaged in the deep. At such a time,
How beautiful, O Duddingston! thy smooth
And dazzling gleam, o'er which the skaiter skims
From side to side, leaning with easy bend,
And motion fleet, yet graceful: wheeling now
In many a curve fantastic; forward now,
Without apparent impulse, shooting swift,
And thridding, with unerring aim, the throng
That all around enjoy the mazy sport:
Dunedin's nymphs the while the season brave,
And, every charm enhanced,—the blooming cheek,
The eye beaming delight, the breathing lips
Like rosebuds wreathed in mist,—the nameless grace
Of beauty venturing on the slippery path,—
Heighten the joy, and make stern winter smile.
Scared from her reedy citadel, the swan,
Beneath whose breast, when summer gales blew soft,
The water lily dipped its lovely flower,
Spreads her broad pinions mounting to the sky,
Then stretches o'er Craigmillar's ruined towers,
And seeks some lonely lake remote from man.
Upon the lake's crystalline broad expanse,
Wherein the whole reflected hemisphere
Majestically glows, and the full sweep,
From pole to pole, of shooting star is seen:
Or when the noon-day sun illumes the scene,
And mountain hoar, tree, bush, and margin reed,
Are imaged in the deep. At such a time,
How beautiful, O Duddingston! thy smooth
And dazzling gleam, o'er which the skaiter skims
From side to side, leaning with easy bend,
And motion fleet, yet graceful: wheeling now
In many a curve fantastic; forward now,
Without apparent impulse, shooting swift,
And thridding, with unerring aim, the throng
That all around enjoy the mazy sport:
Dunedin's nymphs the while the season brave,
21
The eye beaming delight, the breathing lips
Like rosebuds wreathed in mist,—the nameless grace
Of beauty venturing on the slippery path,—
Heighten the joy, and make stern winter smile.
Scared from her reedy citadel, the swan,
Beneath whose breast, when summer gales blew soft,
The water lily dipped its lovely flower,
Spreads her broad pinions mounting to the sky,
Then stretches o'er Craigmillar's ruined towers,
And seeks some lonely lake remote from man.
Now rival parishes, and shrievedoms, keep,
On upland lochs, the long-expected tryst
To play their yearly bonspiel . Aged men,
Smit with the eagerness of youth, are there,
While love of conquest lights their beamless eyes,
New-nerves their arms, and makes them young once more.
On upland lochs, the long-expected tryst
To play their yearly bonspiel . Aged men,
Smit with the eagerness of youth, are there,
While love of conquest lights their beamless eyes,
22
The sides when ranged, the distance meted out,
And duly traced the tees , some younger hand
Begins, with throbbing heart, and far o'ershoots,
Or sideward leaves, the mark: in vain he bends
His waist, and winds his hand, as if it still
Retained the power to guide the devious stone,
Which, onward hurling, makes the circling groupe
Quick start aside, to shun its reckless force.
But more and still more skilful arms succeed,
And near and nearer still around the tee,
This side, now that, approaches; till at last,
Two seeming equidistant, straws or twigs
Decide as umpires 'tween contending coits .
And duly traced the tees , some younger hand
Begins, with throbbing heart, and far o'ershoots,
Or sideward leaves, the mark: in vain he bends
His waist, and winds his hand, as if it still
Retained the power to guide the devious stone,
Which, onward hurling, makes the circling groupe
Quick start aside, to shun its reckless force.
But more and still more skilful arms succeed,
And near and nearer still around the tee,
This side, now that, approaches; till at last,
Two seeming equidistant, straws or twigs
Decide as umpires 'tween contending coits .
23
Keen, keener still, as life itself were staked,
Kindles the friendly strife: one points the line
To him who, poising, aims and aims again;
Another runs and sweeps where nothing lies.
Success alternately, from side to side,
Changes; and quick the hours un-noted fly,
Till light begins to fail, and deep below,
The player, as he stoops to lift his coit,
Sees, half incredulous, the rising moon.
But now the final, the decisive spell,
Begins; near and more near the sounding stones,
Some winding in, some bearing straight along,
Crowd justling all around the mark, while one,
Just slightly touching, victory depends
Upon the final aim: long swings the stone,
Then with full force, careering furious on,
Rattling it strikes aside both friend and foe,
Maintains its course, and takes the victor's place.
The social meal succeeds, and social glass;
In words the fight renewed is fought again,
While festive mirth forgets the winged hours.—
Some quit betimes the scene, and find that home
Is still the place where genuine pleasure dwells.
Kindles the friendly strife: one points the line
To him who, poising, aims and aims again;
Another runs and sweeps where nothing lies.
Success alternately, from side to side,
Changes; and quick the hours un-noted fly,
Till light begins to fail, and deep below,
The player, as he stoops to lift his coit,
Sees, half incredulous, the rising moon.
But now the final, the decisive spell,
Begins; near and more near the sounding stones,
Some winding in, some bearing straight along,
Crowd justling all around the mark, while one,
Just slightly touching, victory depends
Upon the final aim: long swings the stone,
Then with full force, careering furious on,
Rattling it strikes aside both friend and foe,
Maintains its course, and takes the victor's place.
The social meal succeeds, and social glass;
In words the fight renewed is fought again,
24
Some quit betimes the scene, and find that home
Is still the place where genuine pleasure dwells.
Dear to the peasant's heart his fire-side blaze,
And floor new swept to greet his glad return!
And dear the welcome of his child, and dog
Fawning to share his favour, still bestowed
Upon the climbing infant: sweet meanwhile,
His only guest, the redbreast, wakened, trills
A summer carol short, then 'neath his wing,
In trust implicit, veils his little head.
May be some ancient volume read aloud
Fixes the listening groupe; perhaps the deeds
Of Wallace are the theme,—rude though the strain,
And mingling false with true, relished by all
Who Scotland love,—who liberty adore.
Hope, fear, and joy, alternate paint each face,
As fluctuates the fortune of the chief:
Or terror, all unmingled, sways the breast,
And shakes the frame, when Fawdon's ghost appears.
Perhaps the godly lives, the fearless deaths
Triumphant, of the men who, on the field,
Or not less honourable scaffold, fell,
Asserting Freedom and Religion's cause,
Arouse each generous feeling of the soul;
Or Ramsay's page pourtrays the rural life
In all the grace of truth; or Burns calls forth
Each passion at his will; then, with a smile,
A beauteous winning smile of Nature's face,
Soothes their full storm into a gentle calm.
And floor new swept to greet his glad return!
And dear the welcome of his child, and dog
Fawning to share his favour, still bestowed
Upon the climbing infant: sweet meanwhile,
His only guest, the redbreast, wakened, trills
A summer carol short, then 'neath his wing,
In trust implicit, veils his little head.
May be some ancient volume read aloud
Fixes the listening groupe; perhaps the deeds
Of Wallace are the theme,—rude though the strain,
And mingling false with true, relished by all
Who Scotland love,—who liberty adore.
Hope, fear, and joy, alternate paint each face,
As fluctuates the fortune of the chief:
Or terror, all unmingled, sways the breast,
25
Perhaps the godly lives, the fearless deaths
Triumphant, of the men who, on the field,
Or not less honourable scaffold, fell,
Asserting Freedom and Religion's cause,
Arouse each generous feeling of the soul;
Or Ramsay's page pourtrays the rural life
In all the grace of truth; or Burns calls forth
Each passion at his will; then, with a smile,
A beauteous winning smile of Nature's face,
Soothes their full storm into a gentle calm.
This is no tale which fabling poet dreams,
No fancied picture of some former age
When truth, and plain though useful knowledge dwelt
With virtue, pure religion, simple joy,
And innocence, beneath the rustic roof:
No, 'tis a faithful portrait, unadorned,
Of manners lingering yet in Scotia's vales.
Still there, beside the church-yard path, is heard,
From lowly dwelling, rise the noise confused
Of many tongues, of some who con, or seem
To con with look intent, their little task;
There, still the village master and the priest
Unite to spread instruction o'er the land.
And let not him who ploughs a wide domain
Ask, with contemptuous sneer, what that avails
In making fruitful fields? Are fields alone
Worthy the culture of a fostering state?
What is a country rich in waving grain,
In sweeping herds and flocks, barren of men,
Or, fruitful of a race degenerate, sunk
In gloomy ignorance, without a ray
Of useful, or of pleasing lore, to cheer
The listless hours, when labour folds his arms?
What heart so base, so sordid, as engross,
Not only all the luxuries and joys
Which affluence can minister to man,
But would, from common use, lock up the fount
Of knowledge pure, lest men should be too wise!
What sacrilegious tongue dare to arraign
The glorious work, by which the sacred page
Was patent made to every eye that looks
Upon the light of heaven, and blesses God
That yet a brighter light illumes his soul!
Who dares, with brow of adamant, maintain,
That Britain's sons, who sent him to defend
Their rights,—whose delegated voice derives
Its power from them,—dares, with a cynic jest,
Deny the right of Englishmen to read!
No fancied picture of some former age
When truth, and plain though useful knowledge dwelt
With virtue, pure religion, simple joy,
And innocence, beneath the rustic roof:
No, 'tis a faithful portrait, unadorned,
Of manners lingering yet in Scotia's vales.
Still there, beside the church-yard path, is heard,
26
Of many tongues, of some who con, or seem
To con with look intent, their little task;
There, still the village master and the priest
Unite to spread instruction o'er the land.
And let not him who ploughs a wide domain
Ask, with contemptuous sneer, what that avails
In making fruitful fields? Are fields alone
Worthy the culture of a fostering state?
What is a country rich in waving grain,
In sweeping herds and flocks, barren of men,
Or, fruitful of a race degenerate, sunk
In gloomy ignorance, without a ray
Of useful, or of pleasing lore, to cheer
The listless hours, when labour folds his arms?
What heart so base, so sordid, as engross,
Not only all the luxuries and joys
Which affluence can minister to man,
But would, from common use, lock up the fount
Of knowledge pure, lest men should be too wise!
27
The glorious work, by which the sacred page
Was patent made to every eye that looks
Upon the light of heaven, and blesses God
That yet a brighter light illumes his soul!
Who dares, with brow of adamant, maintain,
That Britain's sons, who sent him to defend
Their rights,—whose delegated voice derives
Its power from them,—dares, with a cynic jest,
Deny the right of Englishmen to read!
In some parts of Scotland, the stones with which curlers play are called cooting, or coiting stones.
29
FEBRUARY.
------Sudden from the hills,
O'er rocks and woods, in broad brown cataracts,
A thousand snow-fed torrents shoot at once.
Thomson.
O'er rocks and woods, in broad brown cataracts,
A thousand snow-fed torrents shoot at once.
Thomson.
30
ARGUMENT.
Mountain snows dissolving—River ice breaking— Signs of Spring's approach—Ploughing—Cultivation of waste land—Contrast between waste land and the same land in an improved state—Compost —Spreading manure in time of frost—Use of the brake in stiff soils—Farther signs of Spring— Lark—Crocus—Bees—Feeding of bees—Cultivation of willows—Use of the willow tribes in defending the banks of rivers—Various other uses— Description of the inmates of a Blind Asylum—Of a French captive.
31
The long-piled mountain-snows at last dissolve,
Bursting the roaring river's brittle bonds.
Ponderous the fragments down the cataract shoot,
And, buried in the boiling gulph below,
Emerging, re-appear, then roll along,
Tracing their height upon the half-sunk trees.
But slower, by degrees, the obstructed wave
Accumulated, crashing, scarcely seems
To move, pausing at times, until, upheaved
In masses huge, the lower sheet gives way.
Bursting the roaring river's brittle bonds.
Ponderous the fragments down the cataract shoot,
And, buried in the boiling gulph below,
Emerging, re-appear, then roll along,
Tracing their height upon the half-sunk trees.
But slower, by degrees, the obstructed wave
Accumulated, crashing, scarcely seems
To move, pausing at times, until, upheaved
In masses huge, the lower sheet gives way.
32
Bleak still, and winterly, o'er hill and dale,
Is nature's aspect: yet some pleasing signs,
Some heart-reviving preludes, faint and few,
Of Spring's sweet season, meet the eye or ear.
When calm the eve, I've heard the partridge call,
And seen the pairing couple as they tripped
Athwart the wreaths that in the furrows lurk:
And even the rere-mouse, when the twilight sleeps,
Unbreathing, spreads her torpid wings, and round
From stack to house or barn, and round again,
With many a sudden turn, flits and eludes
The eye. Than these no surer signs presage
An early seed-time, and an early braird.
Is nature's aspect: yet some pleasing signs,
Some heart-reviving preludes, faint and few,
Of Spring's sweet season, meet the eye or ear.
When calm the eve, I've heard the partridge call,
And seen the pairing couple as they tripped
Athwart the wreaths that in the furrows lurk:
And even the rere-mouse, when the twilight sleeps,
Unbreathing, spreads her torpid wings, and round
From stack to house or barn, and round again,
With many a sudden turn, flits and eludes
The eye. Than these no surer signs presage
An early seed-time, and an early braird.
And now, when sun and wind have dried the fields,
'Tis time to clear your ploughshare in the glebe.
If deep you wish to go, or if the soil
Be stiff and hard, or not yet cleared of stones,
The Scottish plough, drawn by a team four strong,
Your purpose best will suit; quick it divides
The tumbling mould, while, whistling as he drives,
The merry plough-boy cheers the cold bleak day.
But if from nature, or from art, the soil
Be soft and friable, the smaller plough,
Drawn by one pair, obedient to the voice,
And double rein held by the ploughman's hand,
Moves right along, or winds as he directs.
'Tis time to clear your ploughshare in the glebe.
If deep you wish to go, or if the soil
Be stiff and hard, or not yet cleared of stones,
The Scottish plough, drawn by a team four strong,
Your purpose best will suit; quick it divides
33
The merry plough-boy cheers the cold bleak day.
But if from nature, or from art, the soil
Be soft and friable, the smaller plough,
Drawn by one pair, obedient to the voice,
And double rein held by the ploughman's hand,
Moves right along, or winds as he directs.
But small degree of skill needs he, whose soil
Already by the plough has been subdued.
It is the old uncultivated waste,
Where yet the moor hen, 'mid the bushy heath,
Her nest conceals; where hardy grass alone
Of coarsest kind, with ling or furze, afford
A scanty sustenance to flock or herd,—
'Tis chiefly there that judgment is required;
For there experience is as yet confined,
While wide the range of objects that demand
Discernment, in the choice of various means,
To make the desart blossom as the rose.
Already by the plough has been subdued.
It is the old uncultivated waste,
Where yet the moor hen, 'mid the bushy heath,
Her nest conceals; where hardy grass alone
Of coarsest kind, with ling or furze, afford
A scanty sustenance to flock or herd,—
'Tis chiefly there that judgment is required;
For there experience is as yet confined,
While wide the range of objects that demand
34
To make the desart blossom as the rose.
Some fail to cultivate their upland wilds,
Fearing the cold and bleakness of the clime
May baffle all attempts the soil to mend.
Fear not or cold or wet, if, lurking low,
The daisy's leaf is seen; or if the briar
Erect its prickly stems; or bramble stretch
Its shoots athwart your path, or clover blades,
Though small and close, around the sheep-fold spring.
Fearing the cold and bleakness of the clime
May baffle all attempts the soil to mend.
Fear not or cold or wet, if, lurking low,
The daisy's leaf is seen; or if the briar
Erect its prickly stems; or bramble stretch
Its shoots athwart your path, or clover blades,
Though small and close, around the sheep-fold spring.
Begin where fewest obstacles oppose:
Choose patches here and there, though small, nor mind
The squaring of your fields. The sunny side
Of gentle slope is first to be preferred;
For there, if wet the soil, (unless a spring
Oozing, deep-seated, rear a plashy sward),
'Tis easily laid dry; and there the Sun,
Great fertilizer! on the fallow mould
Strikes powerfully, when at his summer height,
With perpendicular ray. On such a spot
First draw a furrow up and down,
Then, turning to the right two furrow-breadths,
Lay up the mould to meet the former cut.
Proceeding thus, though only half the space
Hath felt the share, the glebe lies all exposed;
And thus on each side the inverted tilth,
A channel, smooth and firm at bottom, runs,
Bearing all surface water down the slope.
To dry and pulverize at once the soil,
No mode of tillage is more useful found,
Than this so simple. But the full effect
Is not obtained, unless the circling year
Upon your fallow ground its influence shed,—
The moody spring-time's fitful heat and cold,
The summer's steady warmth, the autumn's winds
And drenching rains, with winter's frost and thaw.
These changes break the most obdurate soil,
And make it crumble to receive the air,
Breathing the breath of vegetable life.
Then with the plough again, and yet again,
Subdue it well, nor doubt a green crop, strong
And plentiful, your labours will reward.
When so prepared, profusely spread it o'er
With limestone crumbling into snowy dust.
Choose patches here and there, though small, nor mind
The squaring of your fields. The sunny side
Of gentle slope is first to be preferred;
For there, if wet the soil, (unless a spring
Oozing, deep-seated, rear a plashy sward),
'Tis easily laid dry; and there the Sun,
Great fertilizer! on the fallow mould
35
With perpendicular ray. On such a spot
First draw a furrow up and down,
Then, turning to the right two furrow-breadths,
Lay up the mould to meet the former cut.
Proceeding thus, though only half the space
Hath felt the share, the glebe lies all exposed;
And thus on each side the inverted tilth,
A channel, smooth and firm at bottom, runs,
Bearing all surface water down the slope.
To dry and pulverize at once the soil,
No mode of tillage is more useful found,
Than this so simple. But the full effect
Is not obtained, unless the circling year
Upon your fallow ground its influence shed,—
The moody spring-time's fitful heat and cold,
The summer's steady warmth, the autumn's winds
And drenching rains, with winter's frost and thaw.
These changes break the most obdurate soil,
And make it crumble to receive the air,
36
Then with the plough again, and yet again,
Subdue it well, nor doubt a green crop, strong
And plentiful, your labours will reward.
When so prepared, profusely spread it o'er
With limestone crumbling into snowy dust.
But if, as oft befalls, a tilly soil
Derive but slight improvement from the plough,
And lime, though dealt with an unsparing hand,—
The river bed, where join the stream and pool,
Presents a cheap manure: or, if at hand
No current bickers o'er its pebbly bar,
Explore where with a gentle slope declines
The hill into the plain; there often lies
A gravelly layer, precious though little prized.
Sometimes a spring will point the place where lurks
A magazine immense: if sand appear
Around the source, be sure that underneath
A stratum more or less is to be found.
Or, if your soil be light, still to the brook
Or oozing springs resort. 'Tis there are found
Variety of earths; for every stream,
Whether it flow, broad gleaming in the sun,
A river fair; or, hidden from the view,
Mine its meandering course beneath the ground,
A little fount; each visits various soils,
Which to the bottom fall, or side are thrown.
Where haunts the woodcock, now about to wing
His way to colder climes, I've seen a spot
Of vivid green, beneath whose spongy sward
A store of richest mud lay broad and deep.
Bear then this truth in mind,—Where'er a spring
Or water runnel flows, there lies a mine,
If right applied, of meliorating earth,
Though cheap, not to be scorned; if pebbly sand,
To clay applied, it opens and resolves;
If clay or mud, compacts the gravelly soil.
Derive but slight improvement from the plough,
And lime, though dealt with an unsparing hand,—
The river bed, where join the stream and pool,
Presents a cheap manure: or, if at hand
No current bickers o'er its pebbly bar,
Explore where with a gentle slope declines
The hill into the plain; there often lies
A gravelly layer, precious though little prized.
Sometimes a spring will point the place where lurks
A magazine immense: if sand appear
Around the source, be sure that underneath
A stratum more or less is to be found.
37
Or oozing springs resort. 'Tis there are found
Variety of earths; for every stream,
Whether it flow, broad gleaming in the sun,
A river fair; or, hidden from the view,
Mine its meandering course beneath the ground,
A little fount; each visits various soils,
Which to the bottom fall, or side are thrown.
Where haunts the woodcock, now about to wing
His way to colder climes, I've seen a spot
Of vivid green, beneath whose spongy sward
A store of richest mud lay broad and deep.
Bear then this truth in mind,—Where'er a spring
Or water runnel flows, there lies a mine,
If right applied, of meliorating earth,
Though cheap, not to be scorned; if pebbly sand,
To clay applied, it opens and resolves;
If clay or mud, compacts the gravelly soil.
But trust not wholly to manures bestowed
By nature's boon; for, though you thus may throw
A vivid verdure o'er the sterile waste,
The meliorated field, without manure,
Supplied by herd or flock, relapses soon,
And heathy sprigs, with herbage coarse, and shoots
Of broom, or gorse, its former state betray.
Attempt not, then, on recent land to boast
Wide fields of waving grain; by slow degrees
Proceed; the broad-leaved plants at once reward
Your husbandry, and more improve the soil.
Nor long the time till, thoroughly reclaimed,
The new-gained crofts uninjured will sustain
Whate'er the oldest cultured lands produce.
38
A vivid verdure o'er the sterile waste,
The meliorated field, without manure,
Supplied by herd or flock, relapses soon,
And heathy sprigs, with herbage coarse, and shoots
Of broom, or gorse, its former state betray.
Attempt not, then, on recent land to boast
Wide fields of waving grain; by slow degrees
Proceed; the broad-leaved plants at once reward
Your husbandry, and more improve the soil.
Nor long the time till, thoroughly reclaimed,
The new-gained crofts uninjured will sustain
Whate'er the oldest cultured lands produce.
By such resources so applied, I've seen,
As if it were, a new creation smile;
Have seen the clover, red and white, supplant
The purple heath-bell; rustling ears succeed
The dreary stillness of the lurid moor;
The glutted heifer lowing for the pail,
Where starving sheep picked up their scanty fare;
The sheltering hawthorn blossom, where the furze
Its rugged aspect reared; and I have heard,
Where melancholy plovers hovering screamed,
The partridge-call, at gloamin's lovely hour,
Far o'er the ridges break the tranquil hush;
And morning-larks ascend with songs of joy,
Where erst the whinchat chirped from stone to stone.
As if it were, a new creation smile;
Have seen the clover, red and white, supplant
The purple heath-bell; rustling ears succeed
The dreary stillness of the lurid moor;
The glutted heifer lowing for the pail,
39
The sheltering hawthorn blossom, where the furze
Its rugged aspect reared; and I have heard,
Where melancholy plovers hovering screamed,
The partridge-call, at gloamin's lovely hour,
Far o'er the ridges break the tranquil hush;
And morning-larks ascend with songs of joy,
Where erst the whinchat chirped from stone to stone.
What unalloyed delight to him whose hands
Performed the change, to wander o'er his mead
At setting sun, and think, This work is mine!
Or, looking down upon his hedge-row trees,
Anticipate the pleasure of their shade!
Not to himself, or scarcely to himself,
But to the sweet interrogating wight
Whom by the hand he leads! O happy lot!
Compared to his, who, pent in city lane,
Broods o'er his cyphered columns, casting up,
From time to time, the total of his pelf,
And grudging sore, that in a few short years,
He and his treasure must for ever part.
Performed the change, to wander o'er his mead
At setting sun, and think, This work is mine!
Or, looking down upon his hedge-row trees,
Anticipate the pleasure of their shade!
Not to himself, or scarcely to himself,
But to the sweet interrogating wight
Whom by the hand he leads! O happy lot!
Compared to his, who, pent in city lane,
Broods o'er his cyphered columns, casting up,
From time to time, the total of his pelf,
40
He and his treasure must for ever part.
The compost pile examine now and turn,
And, if 'tis not completely decomposed
Into one mass of vegetable mould,
With an unsparing hand throw in more lime.
When unremitting cold retards the stage
Of fermentation, heat, then, genial heat,
Must be applied; nor hesitate to use
A little casement sloping to the sun
Like garden hot-bed: covering but a part,
The process, once begun, pervades the whole.
And, if 'tis not completely decomposed
Into one mass of vegetable mould,
With an unsparing hand throw in more lime.
When unremitting cold retards the stage
Of fermentation, heat, then, genial heat,
Must be applied; nor hesitate to use
A little casement sloping to the sun
Like garden hot-bed: covering but a part,
The process, once begun, pervades the whole.
If frost returning interrupt the plough,
Then is the time, along the hardened ridge,
To drive manure, and toss around the heaps,
O'er all the surface equally dispread,
Not scattered carelessly.
Then is the time, along the hardened ridge,
To drive manure, and toss around the heaps,
O'er all the surface equally dispread,
Not scattered carelessly.
41
If stiff the soil,
The larger harrow, called by some the brake,
Will much avail: across, and yet across,
Drag it with team four strong, and raise a cloud
Of dust; then with the lesser harrow close,
Braying your soil till scarce a clod remain,
On which preluding lark may sit and sing.
The larger harrow, called by some the brake,
Will much avail: across, and yet across,
Drag it with team four strong, and raise a cloud
Of dust; then with the lesser harrow close,
Braying your soil till scarce a clod remain,
On which preluding lark may sit and sing.
How sweet, when winter's roughest mood is o'er,
The first note of the lark! How beautiful
The crocus shooting leafless through the ground
Its simple floweret, prized because it blows
The harbinger of Spring! To me more sweet
The first song of the lark, though briefly trilled,
Than all the summer music of the groves;
More beautiful to me the vernal bud,
Than all the odour-breathing flowers of May.
The first note of the lark! How beautiful
The crocus shooting leafless through the ground
Its simple floweret, prized because it blows
The harbinger of Spring! To me more sweet
The first song of the lark, though briefly trilled,
Than all the summer music of the groves;
More beautiful to me the vernal bud,
Than all the odour-breathing flowers of May.
Sometimes, deceived by promise premature
Of Spring's approach, or pinched by empty combs,
Forth from the hive some straggling bees will peep,
And, buzzing on the outside of their porch,
Will try their wings, but not attempt to fly:
Here profit prompts, if pity ask in vain,
To save the falling state: Nor large the boon
They crave;—the refuse of the summer spoil,
Or syrup of the cane in bourtree trough,
Pushed softly in, will help them till the down
Hang on the willow tree, than which no flower
Yields fruit more grateful to the frugal tribes.
Nor is there found a crop that yields increase
More sure, abundant, and at smaller charge,
Than does the willow grove; and now is come
The fittest time the limber slips to plant.
Choose well the spot: it is not every marsh,
Or boggy nook, will suit. Wherever springs,
Not deep, nor difficult to trace, ooze out,
Drenching the ground; and where, at little cost,
A large extent of field may be laid dry,
'Tis fitting there to draw the slanting drain,
And change the swamp into a grassy mead:
But where a head-spring long eludes the search,
And, though detected, as you ween, and led
In stony fetters, still breaks out, and spreads
A deep green patch amid your waving corn,
There yield to nature; there the willow plant.
It will not draw the water off, but change
The water into gold: it needs nor plough, manure,
Nor weeding hand: fair seasons, drought, or rain,
Or cold,—to it all weather is alike.
A broad and open ditch drawn round the whole,
With here and there a trench transverse, will serve
At once for fence, and give a surface crust:
This all the culture that the willow seeks.
Of Spring's approach, or pinched by empty combs,
42
And, buzzing on the outside of their porch,
Will try their wings, but not attempt to fly:
Here profit prompts, if pity ask in vain,
To save the falling state: Nor large the boon
They crave;—the refuse of the summer spoil,
Or syrup of the cane in bourtree trough,
Pushed softly in, will help them till the down
Hang on the willow tree, than which no flower
Yields fruit more grateful to the frugal tribes.
Nor is there found a crop that yields increase
More sure, abundant, and at smaller charge,
Than does the willow grove; and now is come
The fittest time the limber slips to plant.
Choose well the spot: it is not every marsh,
Or boggy nook, will suit. Wherever springs,
Not deep, nor difficult to trace, ooze out,
Drenching the ground; and where, at little cost,
43
'Tis fitting there to draw the slanting drain,
And change the swamp into a grassy mead:
But where a head-spring long eludes the search,
And, though detected, as you ween, and led
In stony fetters, still breaks out, and spreads
A deep green patch amid your waving corn,
There yield to nature; there the willow plant.
It will not draw the water off, but change
The water into gold: it needs nor plough, manure,
Nor weeding hand: fair seasons, drought, or rain,
Or cold,—to it all weather is alike.
A broad and open ditch drawn round the whole,
With here and there a trench transverse, will serve
At once for fence, and give a surface crust:
This all the culture that the willow seeks.
The bending willow loves itself to see
Reflected in the stream; there osier slips
Will thrive, and with reticulated roots
Will fortify your bank; let them not grow
To trees, but close and thick, that in the tangled wreck
Of winter-floods, the water-ouzel's nest
May find concealment from the schoolboy's eye.
A bank so shielded needs no other fence,
No stony bulwark, nor the wattled sod.
Compared to this, the alder's warping roots
Afford ambiguous aid; for on the stem,
Unyielding to the current, wintry floods
Impetuous bear, till, loosened by degrees,
The tree falls prone, and tears an open breach,
While harmlessly along the osiered bank
The swollen stream glides through the bending twigs,
Which feebly foil, and pliantly resist.
Reflected in the stream; there osier slips
Will thrive, and with reticulated roots
44
To trees, but close and thick, that in the tangled wreck
Of winter-floods, the water-ouzel's nest
May find concealment from the schoolboy's eye.
A bank so shielded needs no other fence,
No stony bulwark, nor the wattled sod.
Compared to this, the alder's warping roots
Afford ambiguous aid; for on the stem,
Unyielding to the current, wintry floods
Impetuous bear, till, loosened by degrees,
The tree falls prone, and tears an open breach,
While harmlessly along the osiered bank
The swollen stream glides through the bending twigs,
Which feebly foil, and pliantly resist.
To name the uses of the willow tribes
Were endless task. The basket's various forms
For various purposes of household thrift;
The wicker chair of size and shape antique;
The rocking couch of sleeping infancy;
These, with unnumbered other forms and kinds,
Give bread to hands unfit for other work.
The man bowed down with age, the sickly youth,
The widowed mother with her little child,
That lends its aid and loves to be employed,
Find, from this easy toil, a help in need.
The blind man's blessing lights on him who plants
An osier bed: O I have seen a smile
Of mild content upon the assembled groupe
Of piteous visages, whose dexterous hands,
Taught by the public care, plied the light task;
And I have heard, their hour of labour done,
That simple, sacred strain, By Babel's streams,
Rise from the sightless band, with such a power
Of heart-dissolving melody,—move such a host
Of strong o'erwhelming feelings in the breast,
As wrung a tear from most obdurate eyes.
Were endless task. The basket's various forms
For various purposes of household thrift;
The wicker chair of size and shape antique;
The rocking couch of sleeping infancy;
45
Give bread to hands unfit for other work.
The man bowed down with age, the sickly youth,
The widowed mother with her little child,
That lends its aid and loves to be employed,
Find, from this easy toil, a help in need.
The blind man's blessing lights on him who plants
An osier bed: O I have seen a smile
Of mild content upon the assembled groupe
Of piteous visages, whose dexterous hands,
Taught by the public care, plied the light task;
And I have heard, their hour of labour done,
That simple, sacred strain, By Babel's streams,
Rise from the sightless band, with such a power
Of heart-dissolving melody,—move such a host
Of strong o'erwhelming feelings in the breast,
As wrung a tear from most obdurate eyes.
Once I beheld a captive, whom these wars
Had made an inmate of the prison-house,
Cheering with wicker-work, (that almost seemed
To him a sort of play), his dreary hours.
I asked his story: in my native tongue,
(Long use had made it easy as his own),
He answered thus:—Before these wars began,
I dwelt upon the willowy banks of Loire:
I married one who, from my boyish days,
Had been my playmate. One morn,—I'll ne'er forget!—
While busy chusing out the prettiest twigs,
To warp a cradle for our child unborn,
We heard the tidings, that the conscript-lot
Had fallen on me; it came like a death-knell.
The mother perished, but the babe survived;
And ere my parting day, his rocking couch
I made complete, and saw him sleeping smile,—
The smile that played upon the cheek of her
Who lay clay-cold. Alas! the hour soon came
That forced my fettered arms to quit my child;
And whether now he lives to deck with flowers
The sod upon his mother's grave, or lies
Beneath it by her side, I ne'er could learn:
I think he's gone, and now I only wish
For liberty and home, that I may see,
And stretch myself and die upon that grave.
Had made an inmate of the prison-house,
46
To him a sort of play), his dreary hours.
I asked his story: in my native tongue,
(Long use had made it easy as his own),
He answered thus:—Before these wars began,
I dwelt upon the willowy banks of Loire:
I married one who, from my boyish days,
Had been my playmate. One morn,—I'll ne'er forget!—
While busy chusing out the prettiest twigs,
To warp a cradle for our child unborn,
We heard the tidings, that the conscript-lot
Had fallen on me; it came like a death-knell.
The mother perished, but the babe survived;
And ere my parting day, his rocking couch
I made complete, and saw him sleeping smile,—
The smile that played upon the cheek of her
Who lay clay-cold. Alas! the hour soon came
That forced my fettered arms to quit my child;
And whether now he lives to deck with flowers
47
Beneath it by her side, I ne'er could learn:
I think he's gone, and now I only wish
For liberty and home, that I may see,
And stretch myself and die upon that grave.
49
MARCH.
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noon-tide bower,
Makes woodland echoes ring.
Burns.
Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noon-tide bower,
Makes woodland echoes ring.
Burns.
50
ARGUMENT.
Ploughing—Larks—Rook—Sea-fowl—Description of an old husbandman—Directions in agriculture by him, as to ploughing, rotation of crops, &c.— Sowing—Harrowing—Paring and burning—Apostrophe to Fire—Proposal for applying fire by means of a roller—Culture of cottar's garden and potatoe-plat—Hen and chickens—Bees—Spring flowers—Signs of good climate and soil.
51
Raised by the coming plough, the merry lark
Upsprings, and, soaring, joins the high-poised choirs
That carol far and near, in spiral flight
Some rising, some descending, some beyond
The visual ken, making the vaulted sky
One vast orchestra, full of joyful songs,
Of melodies, to which the heart of man,
Buoyant with praise, in unison responds.
If with the rooks, that on the ploughman's steps
Frequent alight, a flock of sea-fowl join,
Trust not the sky serene, but look for change;
Urge then your task, and let the sun go down
Upon your toil, nor loose the reeking yoke
Till in the east the rising stars appear.
Upsprings, and, soaring, joins the high-poised choirs
That carol far and near, in spiral flight
Some rising, some descending, some beyond
The visual ken, making the vaulted sky
One vast orchestra, full of joyful songs,
Of melodies, to which the heart of man,
Buoyant with praise, in unison responds.
If with the rooks, that on the ploughman's steps
Frequent alight, a flock of sea-fowl join,
Trust not the sky serene, but look for change;
52
Upon your toil, nor loose the reeking yoke
Till in the east the rising stars appear.
A man I knew, bowed down with age and toil,
Who dwelt upon the pleasant banks of Clyde:
Deep-read he was in books, and was by some
A wizard deemed, because he would maintain,
That in the heavens the sun stood motionless,
And that the earth moved circling. He at eve,
When summer eves were long, would sit and mend
His horses gear, and teach me, glad to learn,
His rustic lore. “One ploughing, (oft he'd say),
“Ere hoof-prints frozen white indent the ground,
“Is worth a score when winter frosts have ceased
“To penetrate the mould. Let then the plough
“The sickle follow soon; and when the fields
“Are bare, and mornings clear and calm
“Begin with hoar-frost to encrust the sward,
“Plough down the whitened stubble, turning up
“The reeking tilth to feel the genial beam.
“'Tis change from heat to cold, from cold to heat
“Alternating, that, more than tillage, breaks
“The obdurate soil: change is the very life
“And soul of husbandry; 'tis change of crops,
“By some rotation termed, that makes the ground
“Perform its task with unexhausted power.
“The broad-leaved plants, whose product is their root,
“They least exhaust; and next the legume tribes,
“With leaves less broad, and odoriferous flowers,
“That in the month of June make travellers pause;
“These, through their porous and extended blades,
“Draw from the air a portion of their food.
“The plants with narrow and spear-pointed blades,
“Of seed prolific, they exhaust the most;
“For from the suffering soil is chiefly drawn
“Their sustenance. Two scourging crops of these
“Who sows successively, defrauds the soil.
“But 'tis not only that the broad-leaved kinds
“Draw from the fostering earth a smaller share
“Of vegetable food; no, of itself
“The different mode of action saves the power
“Exerted: things inanimate acquire
“New power by change, like those endowed with life.
“How light the flail swings in my weary hands,
“When sudden frost has midway down the ridge
“The plough arrested! so when from the barn
“I seek the field again, each labour there
“Seems for a time like rest.”—
Who dwelt upon the pleasant banks of Clyde:
Deep-read he was in books, and was by some
A wizard deemed, because he would maintain,
That in the heavens the sun stood motionless,
And that the earth moved circling. He at eve,
When summer eves were long, would sit and mend
His horses gear, and teach me, glad to learn,
His rustic lore. “One ploughing, (oft he'd say),
“Ere hoof-prints frozen white indent the ground,
“Is worth a score when winter frosts have ceased
“To penetrate the mould. Let then the plough
“The sickle follow soon; and when the fields
“Are bare, and mornings clear and calm
“Begin with hoar-frost to encrust the sward,
“Plough down the whitened stubble, turning up
53
“'Tis change from heat to cold, from cold to heat
“Alternating, that, more than tillage, breaks
“The obdurate soil: change is the very life
“And soul of husbandry; 'tis change of crops,
“By some rotation termed, that makes the ground
“Perform its task with unexhausted power.
“The broad-leaved plants, whose product is their root,
“They least exhaust; and next the legume tribes,
“With leaves less broad, and odoriferous flowers,
“That in the month of June make travellers pause;
“These, through their porous and extended blades,
“Draw from the air a portion of their food.
“The plants with narrow and spear-pointed blades,
“Of seed prolific, they exhaust the most;
“For from the suffering soil is chiefly drawn
“Their sustenance. Two scourging crops of these
“Who sows successively, defrauds the soil.
“But 'tis not only that the broad-leaved kinds
“Draw from the fostering earth a smaller share
54
“The different mode of action saves the power
“Exerted: things inanimate acquire
“New power by change, like those endowed with life.
“How light the flail swings in my weary hands,
“When sudden frost has midway down the ridge
“The plough arrested! so when from the barn
“I seek the field again, each labour there
“Seems for a time like rest.”—
Vicissitude,
In all its forms, how grateful!—night and morn;
The lengthening day foretelling summer flowers,
While close they lurk enfolded in their buds,
As yet invisible; the twilight long
Of Summer's eve, that almost joins the dawn;
The ruddy dawn, all hush, till blythsome springs
The earliest lark, and carols in the beam
That, upward slanting, gilds his quivering throat;
The noontide's fervid glare, when panting herds
Betake them to the stream, lashing their sides;
The harvest's rustle, and the lengthened nights
Of moonshine sweet; the redbreast's song
Announcing Winter near; and Winter's self,
With nights of fireside joys, homebred delights,
And days though short, yet not without their charm.
In all its forms, how grateful!—night and morn;
The lengthening day foretelling summer flowers,
While close they lurk enfolded in their buds,
As yet invisible; the twilight long
Of Summer's eve, that almost joins the dawn;
The ruddy dawn, all hush, till blythsome springs
The earliest lark, and carols in the beam
That, upward slanting, gilds his quivering throat;
The noontide's fervid glare, when panting herds
55
The harvest's rustle, and the lengthened nights
Of moonshine sweet; the redbreast's song
Announcing Winter near; and Winter's self,
With nights of fireside joys, homebred delights,
And days though short, yet not without their charm.
Now, at the ridge end stands the well-filled sack,
And hive inverted, while the sower steps,
With loaded sheet, along the furrowed ridge,
And flings the seed with equal crescent sweep,
Rejoicing in the tide, and pleased to close
His blinded eyes, as on the adjoining ridge
The passing harrows raise the golden dust.
And hive inverted, while the sower steps,
With loaded sheet, along the furrowed ridge,
And flings the seed with equal crescent sweep,
Rejoicing in the tide, and pleased to close
His blinded eyes, as on the adjoining ridge
The passing harrows raise the golden dust.
While dry and keen the east wind down the vale
Sweeps piercingly, and makes the violet-bud,
Shrinking, delay to spread its purple flower;
While youngling rooks, rocked in their airy nests,
Importunate, with ceaseless cawing, tire
The ear, as on the swinging bough the dam
Scarce keeps her perch, and deals the new-gleaned seed,
Then is the time, upon the barren moor,
To prove your skill. Where'er, by nature dry,
It stretches far with coarsest grasses spread,
Upon a soil of shallow half-formed moss,
With gritty mould beneath, there pare the turf,
And lay it loosely up, in hollow heaps,
Triangular; next kindle each, till far
The smoky clouds float rolling o'er the waste,
While plovers, screaming, sport amid the wreaths;
The ashes duly spread, no need you have
For more manure, but instant urge the plough,
That when sweet May puts on her hawthorn crown,
The new-gained field, laid down in seemly drills,
May ready for the turnip seed-time lie.
Sweeps piercingly, and makes the violet-bud,
Shrinking, delay to spread its purple flower;
56
Importunate, with ceaseless cawing, tire
The ear, as on the swinging bough the dam
Scarce keeps her perch, and deals the new-gleaned seed,
Then is the time, upon the barren moor,
To prove your skill. Where'er, by nature dry,
It stretches far with coarsest grasses spread,
Upon a soil of shallow half-formed moss,
With gritty mould beneath, there pare the turf,
And lay it loosely up, in hollow heaps,
Triangular; next kindle each, till far
The smoky clouds float rolling o'er the waste,
While plovers, screaming, sport amid the wreaths;
The ashes duly spread, no need you have
For more manure, but instant urge the plough,
That when sweet May puts on her hawthorn crown,
The new-gained field, laid down in seemly drills,
May ready for the turnip seed-time lie.
Nor is it solely on the barren moor
This mode is used; the lea that oft before
Hath felt the opening share, much gain derives
From fire; fields so prepared, whate'er the crop,
Are free from grub and insect, and each pest
That blights the farmer's hope.
57
Hath felt the opening share, much gain derives
From fire; fields so prepared, whate'er the crop,
Are free from grub and insect, and each pest
That blights the farmer's hope.
All powerful Fire!
The time is not remote, when, in the field
Of peaceful toil, (as now on bloody plains
The warrior's direst instrument thou art),
By all thou shalt be hailed the engine prime
Of husbandry! Nor only in degrees,
So high as to calcine, thy power is proved;
Upon the new-ploughed tilth, where seeds and germs
Of noxious herbs and embrio vermin lurk,
Thy subtle element will parch the springs
Of insect and of vegetable life.
The time is not remote, when, in the field
Of peaceful toil, (as now on bloody plains
The warrior's direst instrument thou art),
By all thou shalt be hailed the engine prime
Of husbandry! Nor only in degrees,
So high as to calcine, thy power is proved;
Upon the new-ploughed tilth, where seeds and germs
Of noxious herbs and embrio vermin lurk,
Thy subtle element will parch the springs
Of insect and of vegetable life.
But how to bend the still ascending power,
And make it downward act, requires much thought,
More knowledge in the chemic art abstruse,
Than falls to bard. Yet will I venturous dare,
And should I fail, perchance some better skilled
May light the flame, where I but strike a spark.—
Use not direct combustion to the tilth;
Vain were your cost and pains in such attempt;
Accumulate the power; and what so fit
As iron to retain or to convey,
With equal energy or down or up,
The wondrous element, which, save when bound
In chains metallic, still to heaven aspires?
And what more fitting form at once to hold
The kindled fuel, and apply the heat,
Than one well known,—the rolling cylinder,
Of bulk capacious? Glowing o'er the field
Behold it slowly drawn, and see the ridge
Send, from the hissing track, a steaming cloud.
And make it downward act, requires much thought,
58
Than falls to bard. Yet will I venturous dare,
And should I fail, perchance some better skilled
May light the flame, where I but strike a spark.—
Use not direct combustion to the tilth;
Vain were your cost and pains in such attempt;
Accumulate the power; and what so fit
As iron to retain or to convey,
With equal energy or down or up,
The wondrous element, which, save when bound
In chains metallic, still to heaven aspires?
And what more fitting form at once to hold
The kindled fuel, and apply the heat,
Than one well known,—the rolling cylinder,
Of bulk capacious? Glowing o'er the field
Behold it slowly drawn, and see the ridge
Send, from the hissing track, a steaming cloud.
But these are schemes for men of wide domains,
Which glad I leave to greet the lowly cot.
No month demands more of the cottar's care
Than this;—the garden and potatoe plat
Should now be delved, and, with no sparing hand,
Manured; a task performed at twilight hours
When stated labour ends; for now the day
Is equal with the night, and in the west
Faint lingers, with a pleasant parting smile.
The dibbling done, the dropping of the chips
Is left to little hands, well pleased to lend
Their feeble help: meanwhile the parents view
The finished work, anticipating years
When these weak hands will cherish their old age,
And lay their heads in peace below the turf.
Which glad I leave to greet the lowly cot.
59
Than this;—the garden and potatoe plat
Should now be delved, and, with no sparing hand,
Manured; a task performed at twilight hours
When stated labour ends; for now the day
Is equal with the night, and in the west
Faint lingers, with a pleasant parting smile.
The dibbling done, the dropping of the chips
Is left to little hands, well pleased to lend
Their feeble help: meanwhile the parents view
The finished work, anticipating years
When these weak hands will cherish their old age,
And lay their heads in peace below the turf.
Oft in this month the cottage hen comes forth,
Attended by her brood, down-clad, yet poorly fenced
Against the eastern blast, that frequent brings
A shower of biting hail, which, as it falls,
The inexperienced younglings eager chace,
And peck the pattering drops: forbid not then
The clamorous flock, in quest of crumbs, to haunt
The fireside nook: how pleasant 'tis to hear
The summoning call whene'er the prize is found!
Or see the eager mother gather in
Her tiny justling brood, beneath the chair
On which the thrifty housewife sits and spins;
Or if, to approach this citadel, intruding cur
Presume, then see her issue forth, with plumes
All ruffled, and attack the foe, and drive
Him, howling, out of doors, drooping his tail,
And shaking, as he runs, his well-pounced ears.
Attended by her brood, down-clad, yet poorly fenced
Against the eastern blast, that frequent brings
A shower of biting hail, which, as it falls,
The inexperienced younglings eager chace,
And peck the pattering drops: forbid not then
60
The fireside nook: how pleasant 'tis to hear
The summoning call whene'er the prize is found!
Or see the eager mother gather in
Her tiny justling brood, beneath the chair
On which the thrifty housewife sits and spins;
Or if, to approach this citadel, intruding cur
Presume, then see her issue forth, with plumes
All ruffled, and attack the foe, and drive
Him, howling, out of doors, drooping his tail,
And shaking, as he runs, his well-pounced ears.
This renovating season, too, calls forth
The humming tribes; for now the willow leaves,
And downy flowers on river-loving palms,
Afford materials for the curious cell;
And oft, even in this chill ambiguous month,
The labourers return with loaded thighs.
Therefore by day their gateway-porch enlarge,
But still at eve let it be closed secure,
Lest nightly winds, now in the brooding time,
Should, sifting in, the genial process mar.
Nor now withhold, if much reduced their store,
The needful loan; for yet few flowers are found,
And these quite honeyless,—the daisy fair,
Basking upon some sunny-sheltered slope,
The snow-drops, and the violets that couch
On woody but still shadeless banks, and lead,
With fragrance wafted from their purpled bed,
The wandering step to hail the vernal joy,
The virgin breath of Spring, her fairest bloom.
The humming tribes; for now the willow leaves,
And downy flowers on river-loving palms,
Afford materials for the curious cell;
And oft, even in this chill ambiguous month,
The labourers return with loaded thighs.
Therefore by day their gateway-porch enlarge,
But still at eve let it be closed secure,
61
Should, sifting in, the genial process mar.
Nor now withhold, if much reduced their store,
The needful loan; for yet few flowers are found,
And these quite honeyless,—the daisy fair,
Basking upon some sunny-sheltered slope,
The snow-drops, and the violets that couch
On woody but still shadeless banks, and lead,
With fragrance wafted from their purpled bed,
The wandering step to hail the vernal joy,
The virgin breath of Spring, her fairest bloom.
No surer sign is known of climate mild,
And kindly soil, than early woodland flowers,
And chief the violet: it marks a dry,
A crumbling, active mould; nor less the thorn,
'Neath which it blows, if early clothed with leaves,
Screening from prying eyes the thrush's nest,
Bespeaks a genial soil, and clime benign.
And kindly soil, than early woodland flowers,
And chief the violet: it marks a dry,
A crumbling, active mould; nor less the thorn,
'Neath which it blows, if early clothed with leaves,
Screening from prying eyes the thrush's nest,
Bespeaks a genial soil, and clime benign.
62
The early song of birds, if clear and full,
Ere yet the primrose blow, they too bespeak
A smiling sky; but of them all, the lark
Affords the surest signs:—if high he soar,
And higher still, as if he circling scaled
Some airy pyramid, until his lessening bulk
At last eludes the weary sight, while faint
His song at times still meets the doubting sense,
Be sure the higher regions of the air,
Around the buoyant chorister, breathe soft,
Breathe placidly;—and when the welkin's warm,
Nor sudden frost nor rain will harm your fields.
Ere yet the primrose blow, they too bespeak
A smiling sky; but of them all, the lark
Affords the surest signs:—if high he soar,
And higher still, as if he circling scaled
Some airy pyramid, until his lessening bulk
At last eludes the weary sight, while faint
His song at times still meets the doubting sense,
Be sure the higher regions of the air,
Around the buoyant chorister, breathe soft,
Breathe placidly;—and when the welkin's warm,
Nor sudden frost nor rain will harm your fields.
63
APRIL.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae,
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae.
Burns.
The primrose down the brae,
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae.
Burns.
64
ARGUMENT.
Address to April—Characteristics of the month— Time for barley sowing—Steeping of seed—Fences —Condemnation of the practice of smashing hedges —Faults in the mode of hedge-planting pointed out —A better mode recommended—Rustic courtship— A wedding.
65
Through boughs still leafless, or through foliage thin,
The sloping primrose-bed lies fair exposed,
Begemmed with simple flowers, gladdening the sight.
Hail! month of buds and blooms, of shooting blades
That spread the fallow fields with vivid green!
Hail, Nature's birth-time! hail, ye gentle showers
That, in the opening blossoms, lie like tears
In infant eyes, soon giving place to smiles,
To sunny smiles of peace, of joy serene.
How calm the woods! as if they all had stilled
Their waving branches, listening to the songs
Of love-tuned ditties, warbled sweet from thorns
Enwreathed with forming flowers: all other sounds
Are hushed,—unless, scared from the brooding task
By man's approach, the sudden whirring wing
Betray the bush where hangs half hid the nest:
Return, poor bird! I'll find another path,
Until thy pleasing task be done; return,
('Tis not the spoiler's step), complete thy work,
Cheered by thy twig-perched mate: enough for me
To hear his song, far sweeter there, I ween,
Than, through the wirey grate, a captive's lay.
The sloping primrose-bed lies fair exposed,
Begemmed with simple flowers, gladdening the sight.
Hail! month of buds and blooms, of shooting blades
That spread the fallow fields with vivid green!
Hail, Nature's birth-time! hail, ye gentle showers
That, in the opening blossoms, lie like tears
In infant eyes, soon giving place to smiles,
To sunny smiles of peace, of joy serene.
How calm the woods! as if they all had stilled
Their waving branches, listening to the songs
66
Enwreathed with forming flowers: all other sounds
Are hushed,—unless, scared from the brooding task
By man's approach, the sudden whirring wing
Betray the bush where hangs half hid the nest:
Return, poor bird! I'll find another path,
Until thy pleasing task be done; return,
('Tis not the spoiler's step), complete thy work,
Cheered by thy twig-perched mate: enough for me
To hear his song, far sweeter there, I ween,
Than, through the wirey grate, a captive's lay.
Now clover fields expand the luscious blade,
But tender still, while, on the upland leas,
The yeanlings stagger round their bleating dams:
The orchard's drooping boughs put forth their bloom
Purple of loveliest hue yblent with white:
The sweetbrier's buds unfold; and perfumed gales
A lullaby o'er Nature's cradle sigh.
But tender still, while, on the upland leas,
The yeanlings stagger round their bleating dams:
The orchard's drooping boughs put forth their bloom
Purple of loveliest hue yblent with white:
The sweetbrier's buds unfold; and perfumed gales
A lullaby o'er Nature's cradle sigh.
67
Soon as the earliest swallow skims the mead,
The barley sowing is by some begun;
While others wait until her clay-built nest,
Completed, in the window-corner hang;
Or till the schoolboy mock the cuckoo's note.
He that would reap a plenteous barley crop,
Should in saline infusion drench the seed;
For thus the nascent embryo, ere it shoots,
Is fortified against the ravenous grub.
When so prepared, no dwarfish patch deforms
The field irregular, but every ridge
Erects its bristling awns, equal in height,
Like steely points by marshalled phalanx reared.
The barley sowing is by some begun;
While others wait until her clay-built nest,
Completed, in the window-corner hang;
Or till the schoolboy mock the cuckoo's note.
He that would reap a plenteous barley crop,
Should in saline infusion drench the seed;
For thus the nascent embryo, ere it shoots,
Is fortified against the ravenous grub.
When so prepared, no dwarfish patch deforms
The field irregular, but every ridge
Erects its bristling awns, equal in height,
Like steely points by marshalled phalanx reared.
The seed-time closed, the fences, hedge and ditch,
Demand your tendance; first the ditches clear,
And then, with cautious hand, the hedges lop,
Broad at the bottom, tapering by degrees,
As to the top the shears or bill ascend.
Demand your tendance; first the ditches clear,
And then, with cautious hand, the hedges lop,
Broad at the bottom, tapering by degrees,
As to the top the shears or bill ascend.
68
Some husbandmen, as if by rage impelled,
With unrelenting hatchets, level low
Each full-grown hedge, just as it gains its prime,—
Now in its full blown beauty: withering, soiled,
The flowery branches lie, with here and there
A ruined nest inverted, while behold!—
'Stead of the sheltering thicket stretching fair,—
A row of stumps, from which, in future years,
Another hedge, of weaker stem and twig,
May spring again to shield the fenceless croft.
And whence this love of massacre! this rage
Perverse, unnatural, so near a-kin
To that propensity, infecting some
Who think,—that Nature gave the noble steed
A spine six joints too long; that ears acute
Deform the head, and should be roundly pared;
And that the neck surmounted by the mane,
The cloud where dwells the thunder, is improved
When modelled by the bristling back of hog!
With unrelenting hatchets, level low
Each full-grown hedge, just as it gains its prime,—
Now in its full blown beauty: withering, soiled,
The flowery branches lie, with here and there
A ruined nest inverted, while behold!—
'Stead of the sheltering thicket stretching fair,—
A row of stumps, from which, in future years,
Another hedge, of weaker stem and twig,
May spring again to shield the fenceless croft.
And whence this love of massacre! this rage
Perverse, unnatural, so near a-kin
To that propensity, infecting some
Who think,—that Nature gave the noble steed
A spine six joints too long; that ears acute
Deform the head, and should be roundly pared;
And that the neck surmounted by the mane,
The cloud where dwells the thunder, is improved
When modelled by the bristling back of hog!
69
Oft times, 'tis true, a single row of thorns
Is found a feeble fence; but to destroy
That row, is not the mode to give it strength.
The error lies in planting single rows;—
And, heedless of variety of soil,
Clay, sand, or gravel,—dry, or wet, or cold,—
Planting the hawthorn shrub as fit for all.
In marshy soils, the hawthorn, covered o'er
With lichen gray, appears an aged bush
While only young, and in this bloomy month
Puts forth no blossom: stuntedly it grows,
With sickly sprays in dusky foliage robed.
Is found a feeble fence; but to destroy
That row, is not the mode to give it strength.
The error lies in planting single rows;—
And, heedless of variety of soil,
Clay, sand, or gravel,—dry, or wet, or cold,—
Planting the hawthorn shrub as fit for all.
In marshy soils, the hawthorn, covered o'er
With lichen gray, appears an aged bush
While only young, and in this bloomy month
Puts forth no blossom: stuntedly it grows,
With sickly sprays in dusky foliage robed.
Nor is the single stripe preferred for thrift
Of ground: observe the space it occupies;—
The bank, which common custom thus allots,
Contains full oft a space from side to side
Superfluous, which, if used aright, would give
A fence impregnable to herd or flock.
The genius of the thorn is misconceived;
It loves not solitude; like all the tribes
With prickles armed, the under-growth of woods,
It thrives most vigorously when interwarped
With kindred, not with sister shrubs: Observe,
In woodland glades, the thickets that present
The closest barrier to the rambling step,
Are those where shrubs of various kinds combine.
A hedge should be a thicket lengthened out,
Where, though one plant may fail (and if one plant
In hedges of a single file decay,
The flaw is rarely cured), 'tis scarcely missed.
Let then your bulging quickset-bank be clothed,
From side to side, with shrubs of various kinds.
Let hawthorn chief prevail, but with it mix
The bramble with its stretching limbs; the brier,
Whose prickly leaves and twigs resent the touch
Of hostile mouth; the sloethorn's hardy spray,
Unbending, armed with formidable prongs;
The plumtree wild, the willow, and the whin,
Of brilliant golden hue, where, blossom-perched,
Carols the linnet
of the roseat plumes.
Let these, united in confusion strong,
Grow up unchecked, save at the bounding line;
There place your foot, let not a twig encroach.
Thus on a space, not more than what you waste
In fostering, with thriftless care and cost,
A single row of plants, (which, like a chain,
Is useless if a single link give way),
You rear a verdant mound, combining strength
And durability with beauty's charm,—
Displaying, from the time of opening buds
Till ripening grain wave girt in its embrace,
An ever-varying wreath of flowers and fruits,
Which, to an eye that's fanciful, might seem
A crown encircling Ceres' rustling head.
Of ground: observe the space it occupies;—
The bank, which common custom thus allots,
Contains full oft a space from side to side
Superfluous, which, if used aright, would give
A fence impregnable to herd or flock.
The genius of the thorn is misconceived;
70
With prickles armed, the under-growth of woods,
It thrives most vigorously when interwarped
With kindred, not with sister shrubs: Observe,
In woodland glades, the thickets that present
The closest barrier to the rambling step,
Are those where shrubs of various kinds combine.
A hedge should be a thicket lengthened out,
Where, though one plant may fail (and if one plant
In hedges of a single file decay,
The flaw is rarely cured), 'tis scarcely missed.
Let then your bulging quickset-bank be clothed,
From side to side, with shrubs of various kinds.
Let hawthorn chief prevail, but with it mix
The bramble with its stretching limbs; the brier,
Whose prickly leaves and twigs resent the touch
Of hostile mouth; the sloethorn's hardy spray,
Unbending, armed with formidable prongs;
The plumtree wild, the willow, and the whin,
Of brilliant golden hue, where, blossom-perched,
71
Let these, united in confusion strong,
Grow up unchecked, save at the bounding line;
There place your foot, let not a twig encroach.
Thus on a space, not more than what you waste
In fostering, with thriftless care and cost,
A single row of plants, (which, like a chain,
Is useless if a single link give way),
You rear a verdant mound, combining strength
And durability with beauty's charm,—
Displaying, from the time of opening buds
Till ripening grain wave girt in its embrace,
An ever-varying wreath of flowers and fruits,
Which, to an eye that's fanciful, might seem
A crown encircling Ceres' rustling head.
Now, 'mid the general glow of opening blooms,
Coy maidens blush consent, nor slight the gift,
From neighbouring fair brought home, till now refused.
Swains, seize the sunny hours to make your hay,
For woman's smiles are fickle as the sky:
Bespeak the priest, bespeak the minstrel too,
Ere May, to wedlock hostile, stop the banns.
Coy maidens blush consent, nor slight the gift,
From neighbouring fair brought home, till now refused.
72
For woman's smiles are fickle as the sky:
Bespeak the priest, bespeak the minstrel too,
Ere May, to wedlock hostile, stop the banns.
The appointed day arrives, a blythesome day
Of festive jollity; yet not devoid
Of soft regret to her about to leave
A parent's roof; yes, at the word join hands,
A tear reluctant starts, as she beholds
Her mother's looks, her father's silvery hairs.
But serious thoughts take flight, when from the barn,
Soon as the bands are knit, a jocund sound
Strikes briskly up, and nimble feet beat fast
Upon the earthen floor. Through many a reel,
With various steps uncouth, some new, some old,
Some all the dancer's own, with Highland flings
Not void of grace, the lads and lasses strive
To dance each other down; and oft, when quite
Forespent, the fingers merrily cracked, the bound,
The rallying shout well-timed, and sudden change
To sprightlier tune, revive the flagging foot,
And make it feel as if it tripped in air.
Of festive jollity; yet not devoid
Of soft regret to her about to leave
A parent's roof; yes, at the word join hands,
A tear reluctant starts, as she beholds
Her mother's looks, her father's silvery hairs.
But serious thoughts take flight, when from the barn,
Soon as the bands are knit, a jocund sound
Strikes briskly up, and nimble feet beat fast
Upon the earthen floor. Through many a reel,
With various steps uncouth, some new, some old,
Some all the dancer's own, with Highland flings
Not void of grace, the lads and lasses strive
To dance each other down; and oft, when quite
Forespent, the fingers merrily cracked, the bound,
73
To sprightlier tune, revive the flagging foot,
And make it feel as if it tripped in air.
When all are tired, and all his stock of reels
The minstrel, o'er and o'er again, has run,
The cheering flaggon circles round; meanwhile
A softened tune, and slower measure, flows
Soft from the strings, and stills the boisterous joy.
May be, The Bonny Broom of Cowdenknows,
(If simply played, though not with master hand),
Or Patie's Mill, or Bush aboon Traquair,
Inspire a tranquil gladness through the breast;
Or that most mournful strain, the sad Lament
For Floddenfield, drives mirth from every face,
And makes the firmest heart strive hard to curb
The rising tear,—till, with unpausing bow,
The blythe strathspey springs up, reminding some
Of nights when Gow's old arm, (nor old the tale),
Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round,
Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe.
Alas! no more shall we behold that look
So venerable, yet so blent with mirth,
And festive joy sedate; that ancient garb
Unvaried,—tartan hose, and bonnet blue!
No more shall Beauty's partial eye draw forth
The full intoxication of his strain,
Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich!
No more, amid the pauses of the dance,
Shall he repeat those measures, that in days
Of other years, could soothe a falling prince,
And light his visage with a transient smile
Of melancholy joy,—like autumn sun
Gilding a sere tree with a passing beam!
Or play to sportive children on the green
Dancing at gloamin hour; or willing cheer,
With strains unbought, the shepherds bridal-day!
The minstrel, o'er and o'er again, has run,
The cheering flaggon circles round; meanwhile
A softened tune, and slower measure, flows
Soft from the strings, and stills the boisterous joy.
May be, The Bonny Broom of Cowdenknows,
(If simply played, though not with master hand),
Or Patie's Mill, or Bush aboon Traquair,
Inspire a tranquil gladness through the breast;
Or that most mournful strain, the sad Lament
For Floddenfield, drives mirth from every face,
And makes the firmest heart strive hard to curb
The rising tear,—till, with unpausing bow,
The blythe strathspey springs up, reminding some
Of nights when Gow's old arm, (nor old the tale),
Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round,
74
Alas! no more shall we behold that look
So venerable, yet so blent with mirth,
And festive joy sedate; that ancient garb
Unvaried,—tartan hose, and bonnet blue!
No more shall Beauty's partial eye draw forth
The full intoxication of his strain,
Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich!
No more, amid the pauses of the dance,
Shall he repeat those measures, that in days
Of other years, could soothe a falling prince,
And light his visage with a transient smile
Of melancholy joy,—like autumn sun
Gilding a sere tree with a passing beam!
Or play to sportive children on the green
Dancing at gloamin hour; or willing cheer,
With strains unbought, the shepherds bridal-day!
But light now failing, glimmering candles shine
In ready chandeliers of moulded clay
Stuck round the walls, displaying to the view
The ceiling, rich with cobweb-drapery hung.
Meanwhile, from mill and smiddy, field and barn,
Fresh groupes come hastening in: but of them all
The miller bears the gree, as rafter-high
He leaps, and, lighting, shakes a dusty cloud all round.
In ready chandeliers of moulded clay
75
The ceiling, rich with cobweb-drapery hung.
Meanwhile, from mill and smiddy, field and barn,
Fresh groupes come hastening in: but of them all
The miller bears the gree, as rafter-high
He leaps, and, lighting, shakes a dusty cloud all round.
In harmless merriment protracted long,
The hours glide by. At last, the stocking thrown,
And duly every gossip rite performed,
Youths, maids, and matrons, take their several ways;
While drouthy carles, waiting for the moon,
Sit down again, and quaff till day-light dawn.
The hours glide by. At last, the stocking thrown,
And duly every gossip rite performed,
Youths, maids, and matrons, take their several ways;
While drouthy carles, waiting for the moon,
Sit down again, and quaff till day-light dawn.
77
MAY.
Herba comis, tellus nitet herbis, frondibus arbor,
Luxuriat lætum læta per arva pecus.
Buchanan.
Luxuriat lætum læta per arva pecus.
Buchanan.
78
ARGUMENT.
Address to May—Some characteristics of the month— Clover ridge—Corncraik—Mowing for the stall recommended—Stall-feeding, unless in winter, unknown in former times—Herd-boy—His hut and occupations—Old manners giving way to the encroachments of trade—Some remnants still to be found—Improvement of mosses—Effects of this improvement in respect to certain birds—Description of a family removing to a city—Miserable effects of the change—Appeal to landed proprietors on this subject—Hints for chusing a farm.
79
Sweet month! thy locks with bursting buds begemmed,
With opening hyacinths and hawthorn flowers,
Fair still thou art, though showers bedim thine eye.
The cloud soon leaves thy brow, and mild the sun
Looks out with watery beam, looks out and smiles.
With opening hyacinths and hawthorn flowers,
Fair still thou art, though showers bedim thine eye.
The cloud soon leaves thy brow, and mild the sun
Looks out with watery beam, looks out and smiles.
Light now the breezes sigh along the vale,
Gently they wave the rivulet's cascade,
And bend the flowers, making the lily stoop
As if to kiss its image in the stream,
Or curl, with gentlest breath, the glassy pool,
Aiding the treachery of the mimic fly,
While, crouching warily behind a 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 well-hooked captive strives
To break the yielding line: his side upturned,
Ashore he's drawn, and, on the mossy bank
Weltering, he dyes the primrose with his blood.
Gently they wave the rivulet's cascade,
And bend the flowers, making the lily stoop
As if to kiss its image in the stream,
80
Aiding the treachery of the mimic fly,
While, crouching warily behind a 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 well-hooked captive strives
To break the yielding line: his side upturned,
Ashore he's drawn, and, on the mossy bank
Weltering, he dyes the primrose with his blood.
How gay the fields! arrayed in lovely green
Of various tint; but deepest of them all
The clover ridge, where now at eve is heard
The corncraik's harsh, yet not unpleasing call,
Oft pausing, still renewed from place to place.
Vain all attempts to trace her by her note;
For, when the spot whence last it came is reached,
Again 'tis heard hoarse harping far behind,—
Till silenced by the mower's rasping stone.
Of various tint; but deepest of them all
The clover ridge, where now at eve is heard
The corncraik's harsh, yet not unpleasing call,
Oft pausing, still renewed from place to place.
Vain all attempts to trace her by her note;
For, when the spot whence last it came is reached,
Again 'tis heard hoarse harping far behind,—
Till silenced by the mower's rasping stone.
81
No use to which the clover field is put
Repays so well as mowing for the stall,
For not a blade is wasted; while your herds,
Screened from the sun, and from molesting bite
Of vexing flies, peaceful enjoy the cool
And fragrant meal, or drowsy chew the cud.
Repays so well as mowing for the stall,
For not a blade is wasted; while your herds,
Screened from the sun, and from molesting bite
Of vexing flies, peaceful enjoy the cool
And fragrant meal, or drowsy chew the cud.
In times of old, stall-feeding was unknown,
Save during winter months: inclosures then
Were rare, and every hill-side, every lea,
And broomy bank, was vocal with the notes
Of rustic pipe, or rudely chaunted rhymes,
Responsive echoed wild from herd to herd ,
Tending their charge of mingled sheep and kine.
And still there may be seen, on Scotia's braes,
The shepherd boy, with horn, and club, and dog,
Couched on the chequered plaid, and, at a side,
His little turf-built hut, with boughs o'erlaid,
Wherein are placed, from sudden shower secure,
The Life of Wallace wight, with goodly store
Of ballads old and new, which oft he cons.
And thus, in pleasing solitude, he spends
His harmless, not unprofitable hours,
Till, by his brazen dial warned, he drives
Homeward, at noon, his flock.
Save during winter months: inclosures then
Were rare, and every hill-side, every lea,
And broomy bank, was vocal with the notes
Of rustic pipe, or rudely chaunted rhymes,
Responsive echoed wild from herd to herd ,
Tending their charge of mingled sheep and kine.
And still there may be seen, on Scotia's braes,
The shepherd boy, with horn, and club, and dog,
Couched on the chequered plaid, and, at a side,
82
Wherein are placed, from sudden shower secure,
The Life of Wallace wight, with goodly store
Of ballads old and new, which oft he cons.
And thus, in pleasing solitude, he spends
His harmless, not unprofitable hours,
Till, by his brazen dial warned, he drives
Homeward, at noon, his flock.
O simple times
Of peaceful innocence, fast giving way
To Trade's encroaching power! Yes, Trade ere long
Will drive each older custom from the land,
Will drive each generous passion from the breast.
Even love itself, that in the peasant's heart
Was wont to glow with pure and constant flame,
Now burns less purely than in times of old;
A fatal sign. Yet still the “trysting thorn”
Is seen to bloom elsewhere than in the song
Of youthful bard: Beneath the greenwood tree,
When on May morning, maids, to gather dew,
Hie to the primrose bank, the mutual vow
Is pledged, and hallowed kept, though absence, war,
And, keenest pang! supposed forgetfulness,
Conspire to shake the true and trusting heart:
Still in the gloamin, by the river side,
When calmness sleeps upon the smooth expanse,
And all is hush, save plunge of sportive trout,
(Propitious hour!) fond lovers meet and stray,
Forgetful of the time, till, from below
The adverse bank, peeps out the warning moon.
Of peaceful innocence, fast giving way
To Trade's encroaching power! Yes, Trade ere long
Will drive each older custom from the land,
Will drive each generous passion from the breast.
Even love itself, that in the peasant's heart
Was wont to glow with pure and constant flame,
Now burns less purely than in times of old;
A fatal sign. Yet still the “trysting thorn”
Is seen to bloom elsewhere than in the song
Of youthful bard: Beneath the greenwood tree,
83
Hie to the primrose bank, the mutual vow
Is pledged, and hallowed kept, though absence, war,
And, keenest pang! supposed forgetfulness,
Conspire to shake the true and trusting heart:
Still in the gloamin, by the river side,
When calmness sleeps upon the smooth expanse,
And all is hush, save plunge of sportive trout,
(Propitious hour!) fond lovers meet and stray,
Forgetful of the time, till, from below
The adverse bank, peeps out the warning moon.
In moorland farms, the season now invites
Him, who would change the heath-flower for the pea,
To draw his drains both deep and broad, with sides
Of easy slope. Seldom three ells in width,
And two in depth, are, by experience, found
Unsuitable. Where mosses level stretch,
With hoary cannachs bending in the blast,
There wider, deeper scoop; for slowly there
The sable current flows: yet, to an eye
That's skilful, rarely will there want some line,
Which, though descending with a gentle slope,
Scarcely perceptible, will yet afford
A fall sufficient to lay dry the whole.
Him, who would change the heath-flower for the pea,
To draw his drains both deep and broad, with sides
Of easy slope. Seldom three ells in width,
And two in depth, are, by experience, found
Unsuitable. Where mosses level stretch,
With hoary cannachs bending in the blast,
There wider, deeper scoop; for slowly there
84
That's skilful, rarely will there want some line,
Which, though descending with a gentle slope,
Scarcely perceptible, will yet afford
A fall sufficient to lay dry the whole.
But though laid dry, 'tis yet unfit to bear
The labouring team, and, for some years, the spade
Must turn the spongy soil, and form the ridge.
Chiefly with lime, profusely scattered, mix
The surface soil, while in a moistened state;
For, when devoid of moisture, moss resists
The caustic power, and lies a useless pulp.
The labouring team, and, for some years, the spade
Must turn the spongy soil, and form the ridge.
Chiefly with lime, profusely scattered, mix
The surface soil, while in a moistened state;
For, when devoid of moisture, moss resists
The caustic power, and lies a useless pulp.
From desarts thus reclaimed, some vainly hope
At once to reap a rustling crop, but find
Frustrate their hopes, and seed and labour lost.
During the first two years potatoes yield
A sure increase, abundant; for their leaves
Luxuriant shade the open soil, that else,
Unable to retain or dew or genial shower,
Arid and steril lies. Besides, the plants
Of taller stem require a firmer hold
Than moss affords, which, but by slow degrees
Subsiding into solid mould, displays
A waste transformed into a waving plain.
At once to reap a rustling crop, but find
Frustrate their hopes, and seed and labour lost.
During the first two years potatoes yield
A sure increase, abundant; for their leaves
Luxuriant shade the open soil, that else,
85
Arid and steril lies. Besides, the plants
Of taller stem require a firmer hold
Than moss affords, which, but by slow degrees
Subsiding into solid mould, displays
A waste transformed into a waving plain.
No more the heath-fowl there her nestling brood
Fosters, no more the dreary plover plains;
And when, from frozen regions of the pole,
The wintry bittern, to his wonted haunt,
On weary wing, returns, he finds the marsh
Into a joyless stubble ridge transformed,
And mounts again to seek some watery wild.
Fosters, no more the dreary plover plains;
And when, from frozen regions of the pole,
The wintry bittern, to his wonted haunt,
On weary wing, returns, he finds the marsh
Into a joyless stubble ridge transformed,
And mounts again to seek some watery wild.
These tribes, exiled, another resting place,
Adapted to their wants, soon find; but man,
When forced his dwelling-place to leave, the fields
Which he and his forefathers ploughed, and seeks,
Alas! to find some other home of peace.
Where he may live a tiller of the ground,
He seeks in vain; sad the reverse which he
And his are doomed to prove!—no choice is left
But exile to a foreign shore, or, worse,
To darksome city lane. Behold the band,
With some small remnant of their household gear,
Drawn by the horse which once they called their own;
Behold them take a last look of that roof,
From whence no smoke ascends, and onward move
In silence; whilst each passing object wakes
Remembrances of scenes that never more
Will glad their hearts;—the mill, the smiddy blaze
So cheerful, and the doubling hammer's clink,
Now dying on the ear, now on the breeze
Heard once again. Ah, why that joyous bark
Precursive! Little dost thou ween, poor thing,
That ne'er again the slowly-stepping herd,
And nibbling flock, thou'lt drive a-field or home;
That ne'er again thou'lt chace the limping hare,
While, knowing well thy eager yelp, she scorns
Thy utmost speed, and, from the thistly lea,
Espies, secure, thy puzzled fruitless search.
Now noisome alleys, and the crowded street,
Thy haunts must be.
Adapted to their wants, soon find; but man,
When forced his dwelling-place to leave, the fields
Which he and his forefathers ploughed, and seeks,
Alas! to find some other home of peace.
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He seeks in vain; sad the reverse which he
And his are doomed to prove!—no choice is left
But exile to a foreign shore, or, worse,
To darksome city lane. Behold the band,
With some small remnant of their household gear,
Drawn by the horse which once they called their own;
Behold them take a last look of that roof,
From whence no smoke ascends, and onward move
In silence; whilst each passing object wakes
Remembrances of scenes that never more
Will glad their hearts;—the mill, the smiddy blaze
So cheerful, and the doubling hammer's clink,
Now dying on the ear, now on the breeze
Heard once again. Ah, why that joyous bark
Precursive! Little dost thou ween, poor thing,
That ne'er again the slowly-stepping herd,
And nibbling flock, thou'lt drive a-field or home;
That ne'er again thou'lt chace the limping hare,
While, knowing well thy eager yelp, she scorns
87
Espies, secure, thy puzzled fruitless search.
Now noisome alleys, and the crowded street,
Thy haunts must be.
But soon thou wilt forget
The cheerful fields; not so the infant train,
Thy playmates gay; not so the exiles old,
Who thought at last, below yon church-yard elms,
Now fading from their view, to lay their heads
In peace; they, old and young, ne'er will forget
Their former happy home. Oft from their high
And wretched roof, they look, trying, through clouds
Of driving smoke, a glimpse of the green fields
To gain, while, at the view, they feel their hearts
Sinking within them. Ah! these vain regrets
For happiness, that now is but a dream,
Are not their sorest evil; no, disease
(The harvest of the crowded house of toil)
Approaches, withering first the opening bloom
Of infant years:—As wild flowers, which the hand
Of roaming botanist, from some sweet bank,
Remote in woodland solitudes, transplants
To his rank garden mould, soon drop the head,
And languish till they die; so, pining, sink
These little ones. O! that heart-wringing cry,
To take them home,—to take them home again,—
Their ceaseless, death-bed cry, poor innocents!
Repeated while the power to lisp is theirs;—
Alas! that home no more shall ye behold,
No more along the thistly lea pursue
The flying down; no more, transported, rush
From learning's humble door, with play-mates blythe,
To gather pebbles in the shallow burn;
Death is your comrade now, the grave your home.
The cheerful fields; not so the infant train,
Thy playmates gay; not so the exiles old,
Who thought at last, below yon church-yard elms,
Now fading from their view, to lay their heads
In peace; they, old and young, ne'er will forget
Their former happy home. Oft from their high
And wretched roof, they look, trying, through clouds
Of driving smoke, a glimpse of the green fields
To gain, while, at the view, they feel their hearts
Sinking within them. Ah! these vain regrets
For happiness, that now is but a dream,
Are not their sorest evil; no, disease
(The harvest of the crowded house of toil)
Approaches, withering first the opening bloom
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Of roaming botanist, from some sweet bank,
Remote in woodland solitudes, transplants
To his rank garden mould, soon drop the head,
And languish till they die; so, pining, sink
These little ones. O! that heart-wringing cry,
To take them home,—to take them home again,—
Their ceaseless, death-bed cry, poor innocents!
Repeated while the power to lisp is theirs;—
Alas! that home no more shall ye behold,
No more along the thistly lea pursue
The flying down; no more, transported, rush
From learning's humble door, with play-mates blythe,
To gather pebbles in the shallow burn;
Death is your comrade now, the grave your home.
O ye, whose princely territories stretch
Afar o'er hill and dale, think,—ere ye sweep
Your ancient tenantry from off the land,—
That swollen rent-rolls are too dearly bought,
By that enormous misery which ye hurl
On ruined hundreds, to make way for one.
Afar o'er hill and dale, think,—ere ye sweep
Your ancient tenantry from off the land,—
That swollen rent-rolls are too dearly bought,
89
On ruined hundreds, to make way for one.
Some ousted husbandmen, when other lands
Are in their power, reject the golden boon,
And often rue the occasion lost, deterred
Too easily by fear, clothed in the garb
Of prudence. Stunted crops, a scanty sward,
Though doubtful signs, the over-prudent scare
From lands oft times intrinsically rich.
Some signs there are by nature pointed out,
And not dependant on the care of man,
All things disguising; these will not mislead,
These you may trust. The herbs, hung round with bells,
Denote, unerringly, a soil that's dry;
And chief the fox-glove flower, wherein the bee
Diving, concealed, extracts ambrosial food.
The blue-bell, too, where'er the soil is moist,
Ascends the sheep-fold's turfy bound, and shakes
Its pretty flowerets in the July gale.
Are in their power, reject the golden boon,
And often rue the occasion lost, deterred
Too easily by fear, clothed in the garb
Of prudence. Stunted crops, a scanty sward,
Though doubtful signs, the over-prudent scare
From lands oft times intrinsically rich.
Some signs there are by nature pointed out,
And not dependant on the care of man,
All things disguising; these will not mislead,
These you may trust. The herbs, hung round with bells,
Denote, unerringly, a soil that's dry;
And chief the fox-glove flower, wherein the bee
Diving, concealed, extracts ambrosial food.
The blue-bell, too, where'er the soil is moist,
Ascends the sheep-fold's turfy bound, and shakes
Its pretty flowerets in the July gale.
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Profusion even of weeds, o'ertopping rank
The half-choaked growth of grain or pulse,
Though most unsightly to the well-skilled eye
Of husbandry, are signs, that in the soil
There is a vigorous, though neglected power.
Nor be forgot the broom's thick clustering blow,
Whose blazing brightness on a day of June
Dazzles the eye, making it fain to rest
On flowers of soberer hue: sometimes with growth
So strong, luxuriantly strong, it shoots,
That scarcely o'er the golden forest peers
The wildered heifer's horns, or higher crest
Of proudly neighing steed. Doubt not that there
A native pith of soil, a native warmth
And kindliness resides; rely that there
Grain, pulse, or root, whate'er the crop, will yield
An early and exuberant increase.
The half-choaked growth of grain or pulse,
Though most unsightly to the well-skilled eye
Of husbandry, are signs, that in the soil
There is a vigorous, though neglected power.
Nor be forgot the broom's thick clustering blow,
Whose blazing brightness on a day of June
Dazzles the eye, making it fain to rest
On flowers of soberer hue: sometimes with growth
So strong, luxuriantly strong, it shoots,
That scarcely o'er the golden forest peers
The wildered heifer's horns, or higher crest
Of proudly neighing steed. Doubt not that there
A native pith of soil, a native warmth
And kindliness resides; rely that there
Grain, pulse, or root, whate'er the crop, will yield
An early and exuberant increase.
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JUNE.
O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye
Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all
From pole to pole is undistinguish'd blaze.
Thomson.
Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all
From pole to pole is undistinguish'd blaze.
Thomson.
92
ARGUMENT.
Stillness of noon, and general rest of nature—Pernicious consequences, to men and cattle, of labour in the heat of the day—Twenty hours of light in Mid-summer—Recommendation that the old custom of labourers sleeping at mid-day should be revived —Description of the dawn—Drill-ploughing of beanfield—Reason of planting beans in drills, and culmiferous plants in the broadest way—Slopes best for beans—Time for weeding turnip-field with the plough—with the hoe—Cut down weeds on leas before seed formed—Some herbs that are classed with weeds ought to be spared—The aromatic tribes mint, sage, thyme, of use against insects—Burning birch, broom, and bourtree blossoms between ridges of green crops a remedy against the fly—Plentiful manure the best preventive—Hay-making; part of grass crop should be used for stall-feeding—Want of shade hurtful to flocks—Plantations in sheep-walks —Places fit to be planted—Destruction of ancient forests lamented—Ettrick—Torwood—Apostrophe on the Battle of Bannockburn.
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Beneath the fervour of the noon-tide beam
All Nature's works in placid stillness pause,—
Save man, and his joint labourer the horse,
The bee, and all the idly busy insect tribes;
Even 'mid the deepest groves, the merry bird
Sits drowsily, with head beneath its wing;
Each woodland note is hushed, save when the plaint
Of cooing ring-dove steals upon the ear.
Let man the lesson read, and learn to know
The seasons of the day, as of the year;
To mark the hours for labour and for rest,
Nor sacrifice convenience, ease, and health,
To method's rules, which only then are wise,
When bending to the changing year's decree.
The shortened reign of night, the early peep
Of dawn, protracted long, yet giving light
Abundant for the labours of the field,
Point out the hours for toil. Why should the plough
Or brandished hoe, gleam in the sultry ray,
When man and beast, beneath a load of heat,
Oft panting stop oppressed. Hence Fever comes,
And hence the deadly sun-stroke; hence old age,
And prematurely lyart locks, to man;
And hence (what, in these calculating times,
Will seem of more account) an unseen loss,
Proportioned to the cattle's shortened years.
All Nature's works in placid stillness pause,—
Save man, and his joint labourer the horse,
The bee, and all the idly busy insect tribes;
Even 'mid the deepest groves, the merry bird
Sits drowsily, with head beneath its wing;
Each woodland note is hushed, save when the plaint
Of cooing ring-dove steals upon the ear.
Let man the lesson read, and learn to know
The seasons of the day, as of the year;
To mark the hours for labour and for rest,
94
To method's rules, which only then are wise,
When bending to the changing year's decree.
The shortened reign of night, the early peep
Of dawn, protracted long, yet giving light
Abundant for the labours of the field,
Point out the hours for toil. Why should the plough
Or brandished hoe, gleam in the sultry ray,
When man and beast, beneath a load of heat,
Oft panting stop oppressed. Hence Fever comes,
And hence the deadly sun-stroke; hence old age,
And prematurely lyart locks, to man;
And hence (what, in these calculating times,
Will seem of more account) an unseen loss,
Proportioned to the cattle's shortened years.
Wiser than we, our fathers, ere the dawn,
Were in the field, and, when the sultry hours
Approached, enjoyed soft sleep. Let us be taught
By them; by nature lengthening out our day
To twice ten hours,—and labour in the cool.
Yes,—let the husbandman arouse to toil,
While yet the sky a deep-empurpled tint
Northward displays,—before the corncraik's call
In mist-veiled meads awake the nestling lark,
To hail the dawn. Sweet is the dubious bound
Of night and morn, when spray and plant are drenched
In dew; sweet now the odour-breathing birch,
The gaudy broom, the orchard's blushing boughs,
The milk-white thorn, on which the blackbird roosts,
Till light he shakes his ruffling plumes, and chaunts
His roundelay; and sweet the bean-field rows,
'Tween which the drilling plough is artful steered,
Shaking the dew-drop gently from the bloom.
Were in the field, and, when the sultry hours
Approached, enjoyed soft sleep. Let us be taught
By them; by nature lengthening out our day
95
Yes,—let the husbandman arouse to toil,
While yet the sky a deep-empurpled tint
Northward displays,—before the corncraik's call
In mist-veiled meads awake the nestling lark,
To hail the dawn. Sweet is the dubious bound
Of night and morn, when spray and plant are drenched
In dew; sweet now the odour-breathing birch,
The gaudy broom, the orchard's blushing boughs,
The milk-white thorn, on which the blackbird roosts,
Till light he shakes his ruffling plumes, and chaunts
His roundelay; and sweet the bean-field rows,
'Tween which the drilling plough is artful steered,
Shaking the dew-drop gently from the bloom.
See how the blooms around each bladed shoot,
From root to summit cluster thick the stalk;
(A beauteous sceptre fit for Ceres' hand)—
Then mark the contrast of the ear-crowned stalk,
Barren below, and in that difference learn,
Why, 'twixt the bean-field's marshalled ranks, is let
Free space for air and sun; and why the spikes
Of bearded grain wave equal o'er the plain.
Hence, too, this lesson learn,—the sloping croft
Suits well the podded kind; for there soft Zephyr,
Kissing the lowest flowers, refreshes all,
Then waves his lingering wings, wafting afar
A balmy odour: struck with new delight,
The toil-worn traveller pauses on his way,
And, with a smile of pleasure, snuffs the air.
Perhaps some veteran, whom Egyptic sands
Have reft of sight, (O! when will warfare cease?)
Leans on his staff, and wishes that but once,
But only once, he could behold these blooms,
Which now recal his father's little field.
From root to summit cluster thick the stalk;
(A beauteous sceptre fit for Ceres' hand)—
Then mark the contrast of the ear-crowned stalk,
Barren below, and in that difference learn,
96
Free space for air and sun; and why the spikes
Of bearded grain wave equal o'er the plain.
Hence, too, this lesson learn,—the sloping croft
Suits well the podded kind; for there soft Zephyr,
Kissing the lowest flowers, refreshes all,
Then waves his lingering wings, wafting afar
A balmy odour: struck with new delight,
The toil-worn traveller pauses on his way,
And, with a smile of pleasure, snuffs the air.
Perhaps some veteran, whom Egyptic sands
Have reft of sight, (O! when will warfare cease?)
Leans on his staff, and wishes that but once,
But only once, he could behold these blooms,
Which now recal his father's little field.
Now is the time, before the thistle blow,
While gule is in the flower, and charlock breathes
Its cloying scent around, the weeding task
To urge between the turnip's verdant ranks.
Emburied by the double mould-board, down
On either side the noxious race are laid,
While, by the waves of crumbling earth heaved up,
The plants are cherished.
While gule is in the flower, and charlock breathes
Its cloying scent around, the weeding task
To urge between the turnip's verdant ranks.
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On either side the noxious race are laid,
While, by the waves of crumbling earth heaved up,
The plants are cherished.
Some the hoe prefer,
Which female hands, or, if of lighter make,
The childish grasp can wield; even his small hands,
Of years so simple, that he grieves to hurt
The pretty flowers, which, strung about his neck,
He wears with more delight than kings their crowns.
Thus, too, the crop itself (soon as the plants
Four leaves spread fully forth) is duly thinned.
Which female hands, or, if of lighter make,
The childish grasp can wield; even his small hands,
Of years so simple, that he grieves to hurt
The pretty flowers, which, strung about his neck,
He wears with more delight than kings their crowns.
Thus, too, the crop itself (soon as the plants
Four leaves spread fully forth) is duly thinned.
Besides the plough and hoe, the sweeping scythe
Will much avail to wage the weeding war.—
If o'er your leas the yellow ragwort spread
A gaudy forest; or the seedy dock
Uprear its stalk prolific; or the tribe
Of thistles fenced with prickly arms,—spare not
The emblem dear, but ruthless lay it low,
With all its brother cumberers of the ground:
For, if allowed to stand, the down-winged seed
Flies far, a pastime to your playful elves,
To you a cause of meikle loss and bale.
Let none of all the intrusive race even form
Their seed; for know,—the fructifying stage
Of vegetation most exhausts the soil;
And, though cut down before they shed their fruit,
Mixed with the compost mound, they but create
A magazine of poisons for your fields.
Will much avail to wage the weeding war.—
If o'er your leas the yellow ragwort spread
A gaudy forest; or the seedy dock
Uprear its stalk prolific; or the tribe
Of thistles fenced with prickly arms,—spare not
98
With all its brother cumberers of the ground:
For, if allowed to stand, the down-winged seed
Flies far, a pastime to your playful elves,
To you a cause of meikle loss and bale.
Let none of all the intrusive race even form
Their seed; for know,—the fructifying stage
Of vegetation most exhausts the soil;
And, though cut down before they shed their fruit,
Mixed with the compost mound, they but create
A magazine of poisons for your fields.
Some herbs, that, to the unobserving eye
Of ignorance, are prized of small account,
Or classed with weeds, deserve a better name,
And should be spared: The aromatic tribes,
Mint, sage, and flowery thyme, are sovereign antidotes
Against the insect pest, powerful though small,
Blighting at once the green leaf and the grain.
Seldom I've seen this ruin, where the buzz
Of numerous bees comes from the wild-thyme balk,
That parts the various crops. The smaller race
Of insects shun most odours: hence our sires
Around and in their gardens, wont to rear
The strong-fumed elder; hence (the cause forgot)
Our garden borders still with boxwood fringed.
But if the tiny brood,—viewless at first,
Save by the microscopic power, that opes
The vast invisible of Nature's works,
Minutely grand,—have gathered strength to foil
Such weak annoyance; fear not round your fields,
Or even between your ridges, green and full
Of sap, to kindle heaps of birchen twigs
And bitter broom, mixed with the dark green leaves
And blossoms white of elder;—thick a cloud
Of acrid smoke, in rolling wreaths, invests
The death-struck hosts, galling the gazer's eye,
Thus proving, with what potency malign
Into the filmy organs of the foe
Diminutive, it needs must penetrate.
Of ignorance, are prized of small account,
Or classed with weeds, deserve a better name,
And should be spared: The aromatic tribes,
Mint, sage, and flowery thyme, are sovereign antidotes
Against the insect pest, powerful though small,
Blighting at once the green leaf and the grain.
Seldom I've seen this ruin, where the buzz
99
That parts the various crops. The smaller race
Of insects shun most odours: hence our sires
Around and in their gardens, wont to rear
The strong-fumed elder; hence (the cause forgot)
Our garden borders still with boxwood fringed.
But if the tiny brood,—viewless at first,
Save by the microscopic power, that opes
The vast invisible of Nature's works,
Minutely grand,—have gathered strength to foil
Such weak annoyance; fear not round your fields,
Or even between your ridges, green and full
Of sap, to kindle heaps of birchen twigs
And bitter broom, mixed with the dark green leaves
And blossoms white of elder;—thick a cloud
Of acrid smoke, in rolling wreaths, invests
The death-struck hosts, galling the gazer's eye,
Thus proving, with what potency malign
Into the filmy organs of the foe
Diminutive, it needs must penetrate.
100
But better the prevention than the cure;
And for prevention nought so much avails
As plentiful manure; for then the seeds
Burst vigorous from their cells, nor linger long,
Blanched and enervated beneath the mould:
Quickly the blades the vivifying air
Inhale, assume a deep and deeper green,
And with such constant lusty growth expand
The leaf luxuriant, that no rest is found,
No tranquil nidus for the adhesive eggs,
Which thus, for ever marred, abortive prove.
And for prevention nought so much avails
As plentiful manure; for then the seeds
Burst vigorous from their cells, nor linger long,
Blanched and enervated beneath the mould:
Quickly the blades the vivifying air
Inhale, assume a deep and deeper green,
And with such constant lusty growth expand
The leaf luxuriant, that no rest is found,
No tranquil nidus for the adhesive eggs,
Which thus, for ever marred, abortive prove.
Such is the culture of the verdant crops,
That in the wintry months fresh food supply
To herd and flock,—most grateful interchange
With strawy sheaf thrown in from time to time,
Or fragrant armful.
That in the wintry months fresh food supply
To herd and flock,—most grateful interchange
With strawy sheaf thrown in from time to time,
Or fragrant armful.
Hark! the whetstone rasps
Along the mower's scythe; for now's the time
To reap the grassy mead,—ere yet the bee
Into the purple clover-flower can shoot
Her searching tube,—ere yet the playful imp
Chacing, waist-deep, the restless butterfly,
Can from the red flowers suck the honied juice;
Now every stalk and leaf is full distent
With richest sap; nor is the latent strength,
By which a second growth rivals the first,
Exhausted by the efflorescent stage.
Along the mower's scythe; for now's the time
101
Into the purple clover-flower can shoot
Her searching tube,—ere yet the playful imp
Chacing, waist-deep, the restless butterfly,
Can from the red flowers suck the honied juice;
Now every stalk and leaf is full distent
With richest sap; nor is the latent strength,
By which a second growth rivals the first,
Exhausted by the efflorescent stage.
Though other field-works at the twilight break
Of day begin, shunning the sultry hours,
Hay-harvest, first and last, demands the sun.
Not till his thirsty beam have sipped the dew
That glistering returns his morning smile,
The mower's scythe be heard: then equal ranged,
With crescent strokes that closely graze the ground,
The stooping band extend the ridgy swathes.
Ah! spare, thou pitying swain, a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest! so shall no new-come lord—
To ope a vista to some ivied tower—
Thy cottage raze; but when the day is done,
Still shall the twig-bowered seat, on which thy sire
Was wont at even-tide to talk, 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.
Of day begin, shunning the sultry hours,
Hay-harvest, first and last, demands the sun.
Not till his thirsty beam have sipped the dew
That glistering returns his morning smile,
The mower's scythe be heard: then equal ranged,
With crescent strokes that closely graze the ground,
The stooping band extend the ridgy swathes.
Ah! spare, thou pitying swain, a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest! so shall no new-come lord—
102
Thy cottage raze; but when the day is done,
Still shall the twig-bowered seat, on which thy sire
Was wont at even-tide to talk, 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.
To dry the swathe, and yet to save the sap,
Should be your double aim. Some, void of skill,
Believe, that by long bleaching in the sun
Their end is gained; but thus they scorch, not dry,
The fragrant wreaths. This ancient error shun.
Should be your double aim. Some, void of skill,
Believe, that by long bleaching in the sun
Their end is gained; but thus they scorch, not dry,
The fragrant wreaths. This ancient error shun.
Soon as the scythes the mid-way field have reached,
See old and young at distance due succeed;
The waning spinstress, and the buxom maid;
The boy rejoicing in the important toil,
And striving, though with yet unequal strength,
To match the best,—all, with inverted rakes,
Toss the fresh wreath, and ted it lightly round,
With gleesome hearts, feeling the toil no task.
The very dogs seem smitten with the joy
Of this new merriment, this flowery work,
And, deeming all in sport, run, bark, and frisk,
Or toss, with buried snout, the tedded flakes.
See old and young at distance due succeed;
The waning spinstress, and the buxom maid;
The boy rejoicing in the important toil,
And striving, though with yet unequal strength,
To match the best,—all, with inverted rakes,
103
With gleesome hearts, feeling the toil no task.
The very dogs seem smitten with the joy
Of this new merriment, this flowery work,
And, deeming all in sport, run, bark, and frisk,
Or toss, with buried snout, the tedded flakes.
Full soon the rake gains on the creeping scythe;
And now the sun, with westering wheel, begins
To slope his course, when, half forespent, the band
Bethink themselves, 'tis time to pause from toil.
Straight to the hedge-row shade, with willing step,
Though slow, they wend,—and, seated on the sward
In peaceful circle, join the gray-haired sire,
In asking God to bless the daily bread
He bounteously bestows! with cheerful hearts
Their bread they eat, nor other beverage seek
Than what the milky pail unstinted gives.
Finished the brief repast, and thanks returned,
Some sleep the hour away, some talk and jeer,
While willing laughter, on the thread-bare jest,
Bestows the meed of wit; others, apart,
Hold whispering converse with the lass they love.
The younger wights, with busy eye, explore
The foggage, where, concealed with meikle art,
The brown bee's cups in rude-formed clusters lie:
Or, should they find a sable swarm's retreat,
Deep earthed, the mining spade must lay it bare.
Nor unresisting do the inmates yield
Their little state; forth, at the first alarm,
They swarming rush, and chacing, in long train,
The flying foe, deal sharp, not deadly wounds.
Rallied, at length, the assailants to the charge,
With doublets doffed, attack the stinging tribes,
And leaguering the porch, ruthless beat down
The issuing hosts, till, by degrees reduced,
The feeble remnant, 'mid their fated homes,
Await their hapless doom;—the insidious mine
Meanwhile proceeds, and soon (like human states)
The little kingdom and its treasures lie
Prostrate and ruined 'neath the spoiler's hand.
And now the sun, with westering wheel, begins
To slope his course, when, half forespent, the band
Bethink themselves, 'tis time to pause from toil.
Straight to the hedge-row shade, with willing step,
Though slow, they wend,—and, seated on the sward
In peaceful circle, join the gray-haired sire,
In asking God to bless the daily bread
He bounteously bestows! with cheerful hearts
Their bread they eat, nor other beverage seek
Than what the milky pail unstinted gives.
Finished the brief repast, and thanks returned,
Some sleep the hour away, some talk and jeer,
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Bestows the meed of wit; others, apart,
Hold whispering converse with the lass they love.
The younger wights, with busy eye, explore
The foggage, where, concealed with meikle art,
The brown bee's cups in rude-formed clusters lie:
Or, should they find a sable swarm's retreat,
Deep earthed, the mining spade must lay it bare.
Nor unresisting do the inmates yield
Their little state; forth, at the first alarm,
They swarming rush, and chacing, in long train,
The flying foe, deal sharp, not deadly wounds.
Rallied, at length, the assailants to the charge,
With doublets doffed, attack the stinging tribes,
And leaguering the porch, ruthless beat down
The issuing hosts, till, by degrees reduced,
The feeble remnant, 'mid their fated homes,
Await their hapless doom;—the insidious mine
Meanwhile proceeds, and soon (like human states)
105
Prostrate and ruined 'neath the spoiler's hand.
While thus glides on the mid-day hour, the pause
Has not been useless; diligent the sun
(The time though short) already has prepared
The scattered verdure for the windrow waves.
First flat and low, till, as the day declines,
Now tossed, now side-long rolled, by many a rake,
Accumulating slow, waist high they swell.
One thing forget not,—that athwart the breeze
The rows be laid; for thus all through the heaps,
Quite loosely piled, the drying influence sifts.
Some leave them here to imbibe the midnight dews,
Or drenching shower, and day by day repeat,
For three full suns, the same unvaried course.
Be wiser thou, proportioning the time,
And quantity of labour, to the kind
And richness of the crop: Some grasses need
Much more of sun and breeze; the clover kinds,
And chief the red, so succulent, require,
Unless well mingled with the lighter tribes,
Much spreading, tossing, rolling to and fro.
Has not been useless; diligent the sun
(The time though short) already has prepared
The scattered verdure for the windrow waves.
First flat and low, till, as the day declines,
Now tossed, now side-long rolled, by many a rake,
Accumulating slow, waist high they swell.
One thing forget not,—that athwart the breeze
The rows be laid; for thus all through the heaps,
Quite loosely piled, the drying influence sifts.
Some leave them here to imbibe the midnight dews,
Or drenching shower, and day by day repeat,
For three full suns, the same unvaried course.
Be wiser thou, proportioning the time,
And quantity of labour, to the kind
And richness of the crop: Some grasses need
Much more of sun and breeze; the clover kinds,
106
Unless well mingled with the lighter tribes,
Much spreading, tossing, rolling to and fro.
Others again, whate'er the grassy crop,
If one day's sun they gain, no longer trust
The fickle sky, but rear the verdant cock
Of size diminutive: these, with a little sheaf
Bound near the tops, and by the fingers combed,
Then circularly spread like bee-hive's thatch,
They shield from sudden rain and nightly dew.
So fenced, the little rows, if gently raised
From time to time, in seven days more may join
To rear the swelling tramprick, and defy
Both wind and rain. Beware, nor long delay
To pile the stack, on trees and boughs transverse,
From damp secured:—see, it surmounts the reach
Of arms full-stretched;—then, from below, with forks
Up-poised, the fragrant heaps are spread,
And trampled with much jest and merriment,
And hurtless falls of blythsome lad and lass.
If one day's sun they gain, no longer trust
The fickle sky, but rear the verdant cock
Of size diminutive: these, with a little sheaf
Bound near the tops, and by the fingers combed,
Then circularly spread like bee-hive's thatch,
They shield from sudden rain and nightly dew.
So fenced, the little rows, if gently raised
From time to time, in seven days more may join
To rear the swelling tramprick, and defy
Both wind and rain. Beware, nor long delay
To pile the stack, on trees and boughs transverse,
From damp secured:—see, it surmounts the reach
Of arms full-stretched;—then, from below, with forks
Up-poised, the fragrant heaps are spread,
107
And hurtless falls of blythsome lad and lass.
To destine all your grassy crop to hay
Is thriftless husbandry. In summer drouths
Preserve a portion green for stake and stall;
For in the pasture-field, the biting flies
Unceasingly, though lashed away, return,
And still return, tormenting, to the charge;
Till, goaded past endurance, round the field
The maddened horse scours snorting, while the herd
Gallop in awkward guise, with tails erect,—
And, wildly bellowing, spite of hedge or ditch,
Rush to some neighbouring stream, and, plunging, lave
Their heaving sides.
Is thriftless husbandry. In summer drouths
Preserve a portion green for stake and stall;
For in the pasture-field, the biting flies
Unceasingly, though lashed away, return,
And still return, tormenting, to the charge;
Till, goaded past endurance, round the field
The maddened horse scours snorting, while the herd
Gallop in awkward guise, with tails erect,—
And, wildly bellowing, spite of hedge or ditch,
Rush to some neighbouring stream, and, plunging, lave
Their heaving sides.
Nor less the fleecy tribes
Suffer from noon-day heats. Upon thy hills,
Fair Scotland! which the goodly forest crowned
In times of old, a tree, or sheltering bush,
Is now but rarely seen,—the mossy breach,
Or stone, or flood-scooped bank, the only shield
Where, screened but scantily, the panting sheep
Can shun the sweltering beam: hence various ills
Assail the harmless race. Nature points out
The remedy,—a shade; and what so fit
For shade as trees: a narrow belt will serve,
If crescent-formed, to screen a numerous flock.
Select the spot with skill; trees love not heights.
Stunted and slow, upon the stormy brow,
They'll scarce afford your children's flock a shade.
Observe where Nature plants;—the little haugh,
The murmuring brooklet's cradle, or the side
Of grassy slope, just where it joins the plain.
There plant the bonny birch, the spreading elm,
The alder, quick of growth, and early green,
The broad-leaved plane; and careful fence the whole
Suffer from noon-day heats. Upon thy hills,
Fair Scotland! which the goodly forest crowned
In times of old, a tree, or sheltering bush,
108
Or stone, or flood-scooped bank, the only shield
Where, screened but scantily, the panting sheep
Can shun the sweltering beam: hence various ills
Assail the harmless race. Nature points out
The remedy,—a shade; and what so fit
For shade as trees: a narrow belt will serve,
If crescent-formed, to screen a numerous flock.
Select the spot with skill; trees love not heights.
Stunted and slow, upon the stormy brow,
They'll scarce afford your children's flock a shade.
Observe where Nature plants;—the little haugh,
The murmuring brooklet's cradle, or the side
Of grassy slope, just where it joins the plain.
There plant the bonny birch, the spreading elm,
The alder, quick of growth, and early green,
The broad-leaved plane; and careful fence the whole
Where, Ettrick! now, thy forest wide outstretched,
Here towering high, in all its greenwood pride,
As swelled the mountain steeps, and there as low
Sinking into the dale, one sylvan scene,
Extending far as eye could reach, unbroke
Save by the river's winding course, or cliff
Projecting, or sweet sunny glade, where lay,
In ruminating peace, the fallow deer,
A grove of antlers, or by airy tower
That far o'erlooked to guard the green domain,
Where, Ettrick, now thy pride! save in the song
Of that bold Minstrel, whose loud-clanging strings,
Struck by the lightning of his ardent soul,
Awaken echoes that responses made
To noise of wars recorded in his lay!
Where, Cheviot! now, thy oaken canopy
Of boughs, beneath whose twilight vault, full-armed,
The horseman rode, nor scathed his nodding crest!
Where now thine, Torwood! sacred to the cause
Of liberty! where now the tree revered,
Beneath whose boughs the head of Wallace lay
That ill-starred eve, ere Graham at Falkirk fell,
Beneath whose boughs the royal tent was stretched
Of Bruce, preparing for the glorious day
Of Bannockburn! At Bannockburn—what heart
That boasts one drop of Scottish blood, but feels
A patriot glow burn thrilling through his frame,
New-nerve his languid arm, and make him smile
At, (what in sober mood stirs bodings dark),
At Gallic thunder threatening Albion's shores!
Even yet the ploughman, as with sideward curve
He passes by the memorable stone
(Fit pedestal for Freedom's form sublime)
Wherein was fixed the Scottish standard, feels
A conscious pride his bosom swell, and grasps
With firmer hold the smooth-worn shafts.
Here towering high, in all its greenwood pride,
109
Sinking into the dale, one sylvan scene,
Extending far as eye could reach, unbroke
Save by the river's winding course, or cliff
Projecting, or sweet sunny glade, where lay,
In ruminating peace, the fallow deer,
A grove of antlers, or by airy tower
That far o'erlooked to guard the green domain,
Where, Ettrick, now thy pride! save in the song
Of that bold Minstrel, whose loud-clanging strings,
Struck by the lightning of his ardent soul,
Awaken echoes that responses made
To noise of wars recorded in his lay!
Where, Cheviot! now, thy oaken canopy
Of boughs, beneath whose twilight vault, full-armed,
The horseman rode, nor scathed his nodding crest!
Where now thine, Torwood! sacred to the cause
Of liberty! where now the tree revered,
Beneath whose boughs the head of Wallace lay
That ill-starred eve, ere Graham at Falkirk fell,
110
Of Bruce, preparing for the glorious day
Of Bannockburn! At Bannockburn—what heart
That boasts one drop of Scottish blood, but feels
A patriot glow burn thrilling through his frame,
New-nerve his languid arm, and make him smile
At, (what in sober mood stirs bodings dark),
At Gallic thunder threatening Albion's shores!
Even yet the ploughman, as with sideward curve
He passes by the memorable stone
(Fit pedestal for Freedom's form sublime)
Wherein was fixed the Scottish standard, feels
A conscious pride his bosom swell, and grasps
With firmer hold the smooth-worn shafts.
To them who on a lovely morn of June
,
At break of day, knelt on the dewy sward,
While full in view Inchaffray's abbot reared
The sacred host
; to them who, ere the shut
Of blood-besprinkled flowers, fell in the cause
Of Freedom and their Country! to the men
Who that day's fight survived, and saw once more
Their homes, their children;—and, when silvery hairs
Their temples thin besprent, lived to recount,
On winter nights, the achievements of that day!—
To them be ever raised the muses' voice
In grateful song triumphant;—for by them
Was saved that independent state, so long maintained,
From which, though in an evil hour resigned,
Are now derived that liberty, those laws,
Beneath whose equal rule the swain secure
Now wandering, at the silent gloamin tide,
Amid his earing fields, anticipates,
With secret joy, and thankfulness of heart
Exuberantly full, a plenteous year!
At break of day, knelt on the dewy sward,
While full in view Inchaffray's abbot reared
111
Of blood-besprinkled flowers, fell in the cause
Of Freedom and their Country! to the men
Who that day's fight survived, and saw once more
Their homes, their children;—and, when silvery hairs
Their temples thin besprent, lived to recount,
On winter nights, the achievements of that day!—
To them be ever raised the muses' voice
In grateful song triumphant;—for by them
Was saved that independent state, so long maintained,
From which, though in an evil hour resigned,
Are now derived that liberty, those laws,
Beneath whose equal rule the swain secure
112
Amid his earing fields, anticipates,
With secret joy, and thankfulness of heart
Exuberantly full, a plenteous year!
Maurice, abbot of Inchaffray, placing himself on an eminence, celebrated mass in sight of the Scottish army. He then passed along the front barefooted, bearing a crucifix in his hand, and exhorted the Scots, in few and forcible words, to combat for their rights and liberty. The Scots kneeled down. “They yield,” cried Edward; “see they implore mercy.” “They do,” answered Ingleram de Umphraville, “but not ours. On that field they will be victorious, or die,”
113
JULY.
Resounds the living surface of the ground:
Nor undelightful is the ceaseless hour,
To him who muses through the woods at noon.
Thomson.
Nor undelightful is the ceaseless hour,
To him who muses through the woods at noon.
Thomson.
114
ARGUMENT.
General features of this month—Destroy weeds—Cultivation of bees—Great vigilance necessary with bees at this season—Warm and sheltered situation best preventive of distant flights—Directions respecting the apiary—Trees, shrubs, and flowers— Honey dew—Prognostics of swarming—Directions when they swarm—Removal of bees at close of Summer to the moorlands—Diseased hive—Remdies —Virtue of honey as a medicine for man—Nature's remedies the most simple—Fever—Cold affusion —Apostrophe to Dr Currie—Cold-bathing preventive of fever—Swimming.
115
No more at dewy dawn, or setting sun,
The blackbird's song floats mellow down the dale;
Mute is the lark, or soars a shorter flight,
With carol briefly trilled, and soon descends.
In full luxuriance clothed, of various green,
The laughing fields and meadows, far and wide,
Gladden the eye: all-beauteous now
The face of Nature smiles serenely gay;
And even the motley race of weeds enhance
Her rural charms: Yet let them not be spared;
Still as they rise, unconquered, let the hoe
Or ploughshare crush them. In your fields permit
No wild-flower to expand its teeming bloom:
In wood and wild, there let them bud and blow
By haunted streamlet, where the wandering bee,
Humming from cup to bell, collects their sweets.
The blackbird's song floats mellow down the dale;
Mute is the lark, or soars a shorter flight,
With carol briefly trilled, and soon descends.
In full luxuriance clothed, of various green,
The laughing fields and meadows, far and wide,
Gladden the eye: all-beauteous now
The face of Nature smiles serenely gay;
And even the motley race of weeds enhance
Her rural charms: Yet let them not be spared;
Still as they rise, unconquered, let the hoe
116
No wild-flower to expand its teeming bloom:
In wood and wild, there let them bud and blow
By haunted streamlet, where the wandering bee,
Humming from cup to bell, collects their sweets.
Though rarely prized by husbandmen, whose bounds
Embrace a widely spread domain, the bee
Is not contemned by him, whose narrow means,
Upon his ploughgate croft, require the help
Of every rural art; nor by the man
Whose sole possession is his cottage home,
And garden plat; nor yet by him who loves
Now to survey the planets as they roll,
Now to explore the wondrous insect's ways,
Adoring, while in both he traces power,
Almighty as benign.
Embrace a widely spread domain, the bee
Is not contemned by him, whose narrow means,
Upon his ploughgate croft, require the help
Of every rural art; nor by the man
Whose sole possession is his cottage home,
And garden plat; nor yet by him who loves
Now to survey the planets as they roll,
Now to explore the wondrous insect's ways,
Adoring, while in both he traces power,
Almighty as benign.
This month requires,
From all who cultivate the frugal race,
A vigilance unceasing, lest unwarned
They lift too late their lightened hives, and find
The younger broods have ta'en a distant flight.
If in an evening sky, serene and calm,
The martins higher than their wonted flight,
On arrowy pinions, scarcely quivering, soar,
And make the lofty turret or the spire,
That far below low'rs in the deepening shade,
Seem of its height diminished,—then the air
Its utmost buoyancy has gained; and hence
All things that in the liquid region ply,
Each bird and insect, float on easy wing:
On such an eve, who marks the martin's flight,
Needs not to scan the argent column's rise
Prophetic, but, from Nature's signs, foresees
A ruddy morning tinge the dappled cope.
From all who cultivate the frugal race,
117
They lift too late their lightened hives, and find
The younger broods have ta'en a distant flight.
If in an evening sky, serene and calm,
The martins higher than their wonted flight,
On arrowy pinions, scarcely quivering, soar,
And make the lofty turret or the spire,
That far below low'rs in the deepening shade,
Seem of its height diminished,—then the air
Its utmost buoyancy has gained; and hence
All things that in the liquid region ply,
Each bird and insect, float on easy wing:
On such an eve, who marks the martin's flight,
Needs not to scan the argent column's rise
Prophetic, but, from Nature's signs, foresees
A ruddy morning tinge the dappled cope.
Oft when, at even-tide, a cluster hangs
No larger than laburnum's tasseled flower,
Long ere the morrow's sun has dried the dews,
The emigrating tribe is gone past hope;
Nor, after anxious search o'er hill and dale,
Does e'er the slumberous owner hear again
Their welcome hum.—
No larger than laburnum's tasseled flower,
Long ere the morrow's sun has dried the dews,
118
Nor, after anxious search o'er hill and dale,
Does e'er the slumberous owner hear again
Their welcome hum.—
Or, on a Sabbath morn,
Cloudy and calm, with not one sunny gleam
To lure them forth, I've seen a numerous swarm
(Whether attracted by the silence deep
And pause of rural toil, or sudden struck
By that instinctive impulse, which directs
More wisely than proud Reason's rules,) rush out
In myriads, and take wing; while mingling sounds
Of distant church-bell, and the jangling pan,
Essayed in vain to stop the living cloud.
Cloudy and calm, with not one sunny gleam
To lure them forth, I've seen a numerous swarm
(Whether attracted by the silence deep
And pause of rural toil, or sudden struck
By that instinctive impulse, which directs
More wisely than proud Reason's rules,) rush out
In myriads, and take wing; while mingling sounds
Of distant church-bell, and the jangling pan,
Essayed in vain to stop the living cloud.
Such flights to hinder, nought conduces more
Than warm exposure, sheltered, sunny, low,
With pebbly rivulet, murmuring near at hand
O'er stones emerging from its chasing stream.
Before, but not so near as to o'ershade
Your buzzing hamlet, let the linden tree
Sweet foliaged, and laburnum's golden flowers,
Present the tribe, when meditating flight,
A tempting seat, a blossoming abode.
Let all around a labyrinth extend
Of various shrubs, blooming at various times,
From the first breath of Spring, till Autumn tinge
The universal blush with sober brown;—
And first the downy-blossomed palm , the sloe-bush dark,
Whose early flower anticipates the leaf,
The hawthorn, witness of fond lovers' vows,
The purple lilac, and the golden broom,
The rosy brier, and bramble stretching far
Its prickly arms. Defended by such walls,
In open plats be seen flowers of all hue,
And odorous herbs,—sweet rosmarine,
With wild thyme, breathing far its fresh perfume;
The early daisy, and the crocus cup;
The violet that loves a mossy couch;
The pale primrose; auricula full fraught
With vernal incense; lily-beds profuse,
As if some shaded wreath of Winter's snow
Had lingered in the chilly lap of Spring;
Fair daffodillies, hyacinthine rods
Enwreathed with azure bells, pinks, marigolds,
And every blossom of the later year.
Who loves the labouring race, fails not to fill
Each nook around his dwelling-place with flowers,
Till every breeze that through his lattice plays
Bear fragrance, loading with delight the sense;
Even round his windows carefully he trains
Lithe honey-suckles, vocal with the hum
Of the loved tribes, which, on a summer's day,
While screened he sits within the quivering shade,
Lull every care, and charm his waking dream.
Than warm exposure, sheltered, sunny, low,
With pebbly rivulet, murmuring near at hand
O'er stones emerging from its chasing stream.
119
Your buzzing hamlet, let the linden tree
Sweet foliaged, and laburnum's golden flowers,
Present the tribe, when meditating flight,
A tempting seat, a blossoming abode.
Let all around a labyrinth extend
Of various shrubs, blooming at various times,
From the first breath of Spring, till Autumn tinge
The universal blush with sober brown;—
And first the downy-blossomed palm , the sloe-bush dark,
Whose early flower anticipates the leaf,
The hawthorn, witness of fond lovers' vows,
The purple lilac, and the golden broom,
The rosy brier, and bramble stretching far
Its prickly arms. Defended by such walls,
In open plats be seen flowers of all hue,
And odorous herbs,—sweet rosmarine,
120
The early daisy, and the crocus cup;
The violet that loves a mossy couch;
The pale primrose; auricula full fraught
With vernal incense; lily-beds profuse,
As if some shaded wreath of Winter's snow
Had lingered in the chilly lap of Spring;
Fair daffodillies, hyacinthine rods
Enwreathed with azure bells, pinks, marigolds,
And every blossom of the later year.
Who loves the labouring race, fails not to fill
Each nook around his dwelling-place with flowers,
Till every breeze that through his lattice plays
Bear fragrance, loading with delight the sense;
Even round his windows carefully he trains
Lithe honey-suckles, vocal with the hum
Of the loved tribes, which, on a summer's day,
While screened he sits within the quivering shade,
Lull every care, and charm his waking dream.
121
But none of all the flowery race affords
Supplies so plentiful of honey lymph,
As, on a misty morning, calm, serene,
Are seen, though rarely, pendent from the spikes
Of drooping speargrass; then all other herbs,
Each gaudy chaliced bloom, that in the sun
Twinkles with sterile dew, deserted hangs;
And busily the humming labourers ply
Their easy task, returning loaded soon
In oft-repeated journies to the hive.
Supplies so plentiful of honey lymph,
As, on a misty morning, calm, serene,
Are seen, though rarely, pendent from the spikes
Of drooping speargrass; then all other herbs,
Each gaudy chaliced bloom, that in the sun
Twinkles with sterile dew, deserted hangs;
And busily the humming labourers ply
Their easy task, returning loaded soon
In oft-repeated journies to the hive.
Than days preceded by these honied morns,
No time is more propitious for the flight
Of overflowing swarms. Soon as the sun
Has dried the dew, the light precursors fly,
Like warping midges on a summer's eve,
In reeling dance before the crowded porch.
Others along the outside of the hive
Run hurriedly, then stopping, ply their wings.
The inner legions, pouring from the gate,
Increase the pendant cluster, till at once,
Streaming, it mounts in air, but soon alights
Upon some neighbouring spray, which blackened bends
Beneath the load. Haste, spread the sheet, and lay
Two rods of mountain-ash along, to keep
An opening all around the hive when set.
Next cut the loaded branch, nor hesitate,
Though, tempting, through the heaving bunch peep forth
The purpling tint of plumbs full-formed, or ripe
The luscious cherry plead like beauty's lip:
Pomona's self her pruning hook would urge,
And save the living fruit: then spare not thou
The knife; yet use it gently; gently bear
The buzzing branch, and gently lay it down
Between the rowan rods; then o'er it place
Slowly the hive, and softly spread o'er all
Another sheet: quick to the transverse spokes
The myriad tribes will mount, and peaceful fill
Their new abode. There let them rest,
Until the sultry hours begin to cool.
Upon a level board then place the hive,
And round the juncture close each crevice up
With well-wrought clay: the noxious reptile race
Will else intrude. Sometimes through narrowest chink
The crawling snail, insinuating, drags
His slimy length, and riots on the comb.
Even here resources in themselves, devised,
Wisely devised, to meet the dire event,
Are by the ever-wondrous race displayed.
To death they first, with many a sting, devote
The unwelcome guest; and then the monstrous mass,
Which else, corrupting, through the commonwealth
Would spread contagion, closely they entomb
In catacomb, as in his pristine shell.
No time is more propitious for the flight
Of overflowing swarms. Soon as the sun
Has dried the dew, the light precursors fly,
Like warping midges on a summer's eve,
In reeling dance before the crowded porch.
Others along the outside of the hive
Run hurriedly, then stopping, ply their wings.
The inner legions, pouring from the gate,
122
Streaming, it mounts in air, but soon alights
Upon some neighbouring spray, which blackened bends
Beneath the load. Haste, spread the sheet, and lay
Two rods of mountain-ash along, to keep
An opening all around the hive when set.
Next cut the loaded branch, nor hesitate,
Though, tempting, through the heaving bunch peep forth
The purpling tint of plumbs full-formed, or ripe
The luscious cherry plead like beauty's lip:
Pomona's self her pruning hook would urge,
And save the living fruit: then spare not thou
The knife; yet use it gently; gently bear
The buzzing branch, and gently lay it down
Between the rowan rods; then o'er it place
Slowly the hive, and softly spread o'er all
Another sheet: quick to the transverse spokes
The myriad tribes will mount, and peaceful fill
123
Until the sultry hours begin to cool.
Upon a level board then place the hive,
And round the juncture close each crevice up
With well-wrought clay: the noxious reptile race
Will else intrude. Sometimes through narrowest chink
The crawling snail, insinuating, drags
His slimy length, and riots on the comb.
Even here resources in themselves, devised,
Wisely devised, to meet the dire event,
Are by the ever-wondrous race displayed.
To death they first, with many a sting, devote
The unwelcome guest; and then the monstrous mass,
Which else, corrupting, through the commonwealth
Would spread contagion, closely they entomb
In catacomb, as in his pristine shell.
When Summer's blow of flowers begins to fade,
Some to the moorlands bear their hives, to cull
The treasures of the heathbell; simple flower!
That still extends its purple tint as far
As eye can reach, round many an upland farm:
There still, of genuine breed, the colly meets,
Barking shrill-toned, the stranger rarely seen;
While near some rushy ricks of meadow hay
The startled horse stands gazing, then around
His tether-length of twisted hair full stretched,
He snorting scours: a toothless harrow serves
For garden gate,—where, duly ranged, the hives
Stand covered till the evening shades descend.
But when the sun-beams glisten on the dew,
Forth fly the stranger tribes, and far and near
Spread o'er the purple moor, cheering the task
Of him who busy digs his winter fuel;
For 'mid these wilds no sound gives sign of life
Save hum of bee, or grasshopper's hoarse chirp;
Or when the heath-fowl strikes her distant call;
Or plovers, lighting on the half-buried tree,
Scream their dire dirge where once the linnet sung.
Some to the moorlands bear their hives, to cull
The treasures of the heathbell; simple flower!
124
As eye can reach, round many an upland farm:
There still, of genuine breed, the colly meets,
Barking shrill-toned, the stranger rarely seen;
While near some rushy ricks of meadow hay
The startled horse stands gazing, then around
His tether-length of twisted hair full stretched,
He snorting scours: a toothless harrow serves
For garden gate,—where, duly ranged, the hives
Stand covered till the evening shades descend.
But when the sun-beams glisten on the dew,
Forth fly the stranger tribes, and far and near
Spread o'er the purple moor, cheering the task
Of him who busy digs his winter fuel;
For 'mid these wilds no sound gives sign of life
Save hum of bee, or grasshopper's hoarse chirp;
Or when the heath-fowl strikes her distant call;
Or plovers, lighting on the half-buried tree,
Scream their dire dirge where once the linnet sung.
125
If e'er disease assail the humming race
,
(For they, no more than man, escape disease),
Its first approaches watch: nor are the signs
Ambiguous of their state: their colour fades;
A haggard leanness in their visage speaks;
The bodies then, bereft of life, are borne
From out the silent porch, and frequent flies
The winged funeral: deep, meanwhile, within,
A murmur faint, and long drawn out, is heard,
Like south winds moaning through a grove of pines.
Here, let me urge to burn strong-scented herbs,
Neglecting not the helpless commonwealth
To aid with honied reeds, pushed gently in;
And with the offered food fear not to mix
Oak-apple juice, dried roses, and wild thyme,
With centaury, exhaling powerful fumes.
In meadows grows a flower, by husbandmen
Called starwort; easily it may be known,
For, springing from a single root, it spreads
A foliage affluent, golden-hued itself,
While from the leaves of darkest violet,
An under-tint of lighter purple shines:
Harsh to the taste, it wrings the shepherd's mouth:
Its root, in wine infused, affords at once
The hapless sufferers medicine and food.
(For they, no more than man, escape disease),
Its first approaches watch: nor are the signs
Ambiguous of their state: their colour fades;
A haggard leanness in their visage speaks;
The bodies then, bereft of life, are borne
From out the silent porch, and frequent flies
The winged funeral: deep, meanwhile, within,
A murmur faint, and long drawn out, is heard,
Like south winds moaning through a grove of pines.
Here, let me urge to burn strong-scented herbs,
Neglecting not the helpless commonwealth
To aid with honied reeds, pushed gently in;
And with the offered food fear not to mix
Oak-apple juice, dried roses, and wild thyme,
With centaury, exhaling powerful fumes.
In meadows grows a flower, by husbandmen
Called starwort; easily it may be known,
For, springing from a single root, it spreads
126
While from the leaves of darkest violet,
An under-tint of lighter purple shines:
Harsh to the taste, it wrings the shepherd's mouth:
Its root, in wine infused, affords at once
The hapless sufferers medicine and food.
To man himself, the honey cell is found,
In various ills, a virtue to possess
Surpassing far the medicated cup—
Simple the remedies which Nature gives!
What cure so simple, and so powerful too,
As is the watery element, when fierce
Through every vein the sultry season rolls
A fev'rous tide, and fell Delirium nails,
Upon the throbbing head, his glowing crown.
O'er the parch'd skin the cold affusion flows
Again, and yet again, in copious stream;
Till by degrees, more calmly, slowly, leaps
The restless pulse; delicious coolness glides
Through all the frame; and, as when thunder-clouds
Have rolled away, and forky fires have ceased
To vex the welkin, forth the sun again
Looks down complacently on wood and stream;
Illumined by his smile, the drooping flowers,
The trees, rejoice;—so from the eye, obscured
Erewhile, the renovated soul beams forth
Intelligence on child and watching friend,
Raising their hands in silent thanks to God!
In various ills, a virtue to possess
Surpassing far the medicated cup—
Simple the remedies which Nature gives!
What cure so simple, and so powerful too,
As is the watery element, when fierce
Through every vein the sultry season rolls
A fev'rous tide, and fell Delirium nails,
Upon the throbbing head, his glowing crown.
O'er the parch'd skin the cold affusion flows
Again, and yet again, in copious stream;
Till by degrees, more calmly, slowly, leaps
The restless pulse; delicious coolness glides
127
Have rolled away, and forky fires have ceased
To vex the welkin, forth the sun again
Looks down complacently on wood and stream;
Illumined by his smile, the drooping flowers,
The trees, rejoice;—so from the eye, obscured
Erewhile, the renovated soul beams forth
Intelligence on child and watching friend,
Raising their hands in silent thanks to God!
And did the Sage, whose powerful genius shed
A flood of light, where only glimmering rays
Erewhile confounded, not illumed, the path
Of science,—did that man, the orphan's friend,
Die unrewarded! No; a meed was his,
Most grateful to his heart, a meed that soothed
His dying hour,—the sweet solacing thought,
That, though no more beside the couch of pain
His accents wafted healing on their wings,
His silent page, amid Disease's storm,
Was still the guiding chart to Safety's shore!
O what a balm to his benignant soul,
When looking forward to the parting hour,
To think that then, perhaps, some weeping groupe
Hailed, through his means, a parent snatched from death!
A flood of light, where only glimmering rays
Erewhile confounded, not illumed, the path
Of science,—did that man, the orphan's friend,
Die unrewarded! No; a meed was his,
Most grateful to his heart, a meed that soothed
His dying hour,—the sweet solacing thought,
That, though no more beside the couch of pain
His accents wafted healing on their wings,
His silent page, amid Disease's storm,
128
O what a balm to his benignant soul,
When looking forward to the parting hour,
To think that then, perhaps, some weeping groupe
Hailed, through his means, a parent snatched from death!
Yet not alone, to quench the burning pest,
Its wondrous power the gelid lymph exerts;
Oft it extinguishes the kindling spark;
And when a youthful band, buoyant with joy,
Hie to the river side, they little ween,
That safety thus with pleasure is combined.
Come, then, ye jovial swains! and in the shade,
Ere sultry noon, throw off your cumb'rous garb:
The pool, relucent to its pebbly bed,
With here and there a slowly-sailing 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, floating with sunward face, outstretched,
Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns,
Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon
With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand.
Its wondrous power the gelid lymph exerts;
Oft it extinguishes the kindling spark;
And when a youthful band, buoyant with joy,
Hie to the river side, they little ween,
That safety thus with pleasure is combined.
Come, then, ye jovial swains! and in the shade,
Ere sultry noon, throw off your cumb'rous garb:
The pool, relucent to its pebbly bed,
With here and there a slowly-sailing trout,
Invites the throbbing, half-reluctant breast,
To plunge:—the dash re-echoes from the rocks,
And smooth, in sinuous course, the swimmer winds;
129
And now, floating with sunward face, outstretched,
Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns,
Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon
With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand.
131
AUGUST.
When-corn-rigs wave yellow, and blue heather bells
Bloom bonny on moorland and sweet rising fells.
Ramsay.
Bloom bonny on moorland and sweet rising fells.
Ramsay.
132
ARGUMENT.
Characteristics of the month—Leveret—Partridge, and her brood—Sportsman reconnoitring the moor with dogs, anticipating the pleasures of the shooting season—Highland reapers journeying to the Lowlands—Reapers assembled to be hired—Address to Scotland as still the country of freedom—A word of advice to Statesmen—Wheat harvest—Danger from floods on river-sides—Prognostics of heavy rain—River overflowing its banks—Land improved by the overflowing of rivers—Mud in creeks of stream—Top-dressing with composts of alluvial mud—Different magazines of manure supplied by nature—Lint-steeping destructive to fish—Fisheries—Herring fishing—Evening—Village herd—Sportsman returning from moorlands—Transition from that peaceful warfare to the situation of Spain.
133
Intense the viewless flood of heat descends
On hill, and dale, and wood, and tangled brake,
Where, to the chirping grasshopper, the broom,
With crackling pod, responds; the fields embrowned,
Begin to rustle in the autumn breeze,
While from the waving shelter, bolder grown,
The lev'ret, at the misty hour of morn,
Forth venturing, limps to nip the dewy grass.
The partridge, too, and her light-footed brood,
As yet half-fledged, now haunt the corn-field skirts,
Or on new-weeded turnip fields are spied,
Running, in lengthened files, between the drills.
On hill, and dale, and wood, and tangled brake,
Where, to the chirping grasshopper, the broom,
With crackling pod, responds; the fields embrowned,
Begin to rustle in the autumn breeze,
While from the waving shelter, bolder grown,
The lev'ret, at the misty hour of morn,
Forth venturing, limps to nip the dewy grass.
The partridge, too, and her light-footed brood,
As yet half-fledged, now haunt the corn-field skirts,
134
Running, in lengthened files, between the drills.
Now to the heath, ere yet the wished-for morn,
That licenses the game of death, arrive,
The sportsman hies to mark the moor-hen's haunt.
Boisterous with joy, his dogs bark, jump, and howl,
And running out before, in frolic chace,
Return as fast, marring his stumbling steps.
But when they reach the purple waste, afar,
With stooping heads, they roam, oft leaping up,
With backward look, to mark their master's mien.
He, with keen eye, prowling, surveys the ground,
And haply finds the game his dogs have missed.
Yes, with relentless eye he sees the dam,
Basking by some old cairn, amid her brood,
Or spreading o'er their harmless heads her wings;
He sees, unmoved by all a mother's cares,
And, as they rise, he counts his destined prey,
Noting, with forward-darting look, the spot,
Where their yet feeble wings they panting rest.
That licenses the game of death, arrive,
The sportsman hies to mark the moor-hen's haunt.
Boisterous with joy, his dogs bark, jump, and howl,
And running out before, in frolic chace,
Return as fast, marring his stumbling steps.
But when they reach the purple waste, afar,
With stooping heads, they roam, oft leaping up,
With backward look, to mark their master's mien.
He, with keen eye, prowling, surveys the ground,
And haply finds the game his dogs have missed.
Yes, with relentless eye he sees the dam,
Basking by some old cairn, amid her brood,
Or spreading o'er their harmless heads her wings;
He sees, unmoved by all a mother's cares,
And, as they rise, he counts his destined prey,
135
Where their yet feeble wings they panting rest.
Oft, at this season, faintly meets the ear
The song of harvest bands, that plod their way
From dark Lochaber, or the distant isles,
Journeying for weeks to gain a month of toil:
Sweet is the falling of the single voice,
And sweet the joining of the choral swell,
Without a pause ta'en up by old and young,
Alternating, in wildly-measured strain.
Thus they, 'mid clouds of flying dust, beguile,
With songs of ancient times, their tedious way.
The song of harvest bands, that plod their way
From dark Lochaber, or the distant isles,
Journeying for weeks to gain a month of toil:
Sweet is the falling of the single voice,
And sweet the joining of the choral swell,
Without a pause ta'en up by old and young,
Alternating, in wildly-measured strain.
Thus they, 'mid clouds of flying dust, beguile,
With songs of ancient times, their tedious way.
At city gate, or market-place, now groupes
Of motley aspect wait a master's call.
The grey-haired man, leaning upon his staff,
Is there; the stripling, and the sun-burnt maid;
The sallow artizan, who quits his tools,
To breathe awhile among the pleasant fields,
And earn at once health and his daily bread.
No scowling tyrant there goes round, and round,
Viewing the human merchandize with look
That fiends in vain would match; no dread is there
Of separation; parents, children, friends,
With one consent, take or reject the meed;
Place, time, and master, all are in their choice.
Of motley aspect wait a master's call.
The grey-haired man, leaning upon his staff,
Is there; the stripling, and the sun-burnt maid;
The sallow artizan, who quits his tools,
To breathe awhile among the pleasant fields,
136
No scowling tyrant there goes round, and round,
Viewing the human merchandize with look
That fiends in vain would match; no dread is there
Of separation; parents, children, friends,
With one consent, take or reject the meed;
Place, time, and master, all are in their choice.
Scotland, “with all thy faults, I love thee still!”
For freedom here still on the poor man smiles,
Sweetens his crust, and his hard pillow smoothes.
O ye, who guide the state, and mould the laws,
Beware lest, with your imposts overstrained,
Beware lest thus ye crush that noble spirit,
Which lives by equal laws, with them expires.—
Unequal burdens make the o'erburdened slaves;
And, making slaves, they make men cowards too.
For freedom here still on the poor man smiles,
Sweetens his crust, and his hard pillow smoothes.
O ye, who guide the state, and mould the laws,
Beware lest, with your imposts overstrained,
Beware lest thus ye crush that noble spirit,
Which lives by equal laws, with them expires.—
Unequal burdens make the o'erburdened slaves;
And, making slaves, they make men cowards too.
But hence this joyless theme, and let me seek
The fields once more;—hark! at yon cottage door
The sickle harsh upon the grindstone grates,
Which, merrily, most uncouth music makes,
Drowning the song of him who whirls it round.
The fields once more;—hark! at yon cottage door
137
Which, merrily, most uncouth music makes,
Drowning the song of him who whirls it round.
And now it oft befals, when farmers' hopes
Are all but realized, a mildew creeps
Along the wheaten ridge, blighting the ears.
Haste, then, the sickle urge, nor be deterred
Though, in some spots, a greenish tint pronounce
The ears unripe: the vegetating stage
Ere now is past; and should no canker shoot
Its poison through the plant, the grain will prove,
Though seeming immature, a healthy crop.
But, if allowed to stand, the subtle pest
Pervades stalk, husk, and grain, blasting the whole.
And even when your wheaten field betrays
No sickly hue, but gives a lusty rustle,
When waving in the wind, wait not in hope
That, standing, it will gain in bulk and weight:
Avail yourself betimes of sky serene,
And with the sun the reapers lead afield.
How pleasant to the husbandman the sight
Of gleaming sickles, and of swelling sheaves!
How joyfully he twists the rustling band,
And, pressing with his knee, binds up the sheaf!
While merrily the jest and taunt go round,
Running, like scattered fire, along the line.
And still the master's joke should, mingling, cheer
The stooping row, and make their labour light.
Are all but realized, a mildew creeps
Along the wheaten ridge, blighting the ears.
Haste, then, the sickle urge, nor be deterred
Though, in some spots, a greenish tint pronounce
The ears unripe: the vegetating stage
Ere now is past; and should no canker shoot
Its poison through the plant, the grain will prove,
Though seeming immature, a healthy crop.
But, if allowed to stand, the subtle pest
Pervades stalk, husk, and grain, blasting the whole.
And even when your wheaten field betrays
No sickly hue, but gives a lusty rustle,
When waving in the wind, wait not in hope
That, standing, it will gain in bulk and weight:
Avail yourself betimes of sky serene,
138
How pleasant to the husbandman the sight
Of gleaming sickles, and of swelling sheaves!
How joyfully he twists the rustling band,
And, pressing with his knee, binds up the sheaf!
While merrily the jest and taunt go round,
Running, like scattered fire, along the line.
And still the master's joke should, mingling, cheer
The stooping row, and make their labour light.
Beware, ye swains! whose level fields extend
Along a river-side, and build your sheaves
Beyond the utmost verge of highest floods.
Or, if you trust them on the perilous spot,
Watch carefully the signs foreboding change.
Along a river-side, and build your sheaves
Beyond the utmost verge of highest floods.
Or, if you trust them on the perilous spot,
Watch carefully the signs foreboding change.
No sign of gathering storm, both wind and rain,
Is surer than the sea-fowl's inland flight.
For though the conflict of the winds and waves.
Be distant far, a sympathetic heave
Is felt along the tranquil seeming bays,
Warning the hovering flocks of surges loud
That soon will lash the shore, and render vain
The piercing sight, which, in a peaceful sea,
Discerns, high on the wing, the finny prey:
But while their briny harvest thus is marred,
On shore the coming deluge draws the race
Of reptiles from their haunts, in mead and grove
Concealed,—the puffing frog, the horned snail,
And all the species of the slimy tribes,
Repast profusely spread.
Is surer than the sea-fowl's inland flight.
For though the conflict of the winds and waves.
Be distant far, a sympathetic heave
139
Warning the hovering flocks of surges loud
That soon will lash the shore, and render vain
The piercing sight, which, in a peaceful sea,
Discerns, high on the wing, the finny prey:
But while their briny harvest thus is marred,
On shore the coming deluge draws the race
Of reptiles from their haunts, in mead and grove
Concealed,—the puffing frog, the horned snail,
And all the species of the slimy tribes,
Repast profusely spread.
He who contemns
These auguries, nor timely moves his shocks
To safer ground, will rue when, with the dawn
Awaking, loud the river's roar he hears:
To doubt, in vain he strives; his eye confirms
The tidings of his ear, and rapid down
The foamy current he beholds his sheaves
Sweeping along, while, 'mid the havoc, bleats
The floating lamb, with meek unconscious face.
These auguries, nor timely moves his shocks
To safer ground, will rue when, with the dawn
Awaking, loud the river's roar he hears:
To doubt, in vain he strives; his eye confirms
The tidings of his ear, and rapid down
The foamy current he beholds his sheaves
140
The floating lamb, with meek unconscious face.
Some rivers, by the mountain-torrents fed,
Rush down, with swell so sudden and so high,
That all her fleetness cannot save the hare,
Unless (as erst befel in Clyde's fair dale)
She gain some passing rick: there close she squats.
Now in the middle current shot along
In swift career, now near the eddying side
Whirling amazed, while from the dizzy shore
Some shepherd's dog discerns the floating prize,
And, barking, scours along, then stops, but fears
To venture in; onward meanwhile she sails,
Till, through the broadened vale, the stream expand
In gentler course, and gliding past the bank,
Restore her, fearful, to the fields again.
Rush down, with swell so sudden and so high,
That all her fleetness cannot save the hare,
Unless (as erst befel in Clyde's fair dale)
She gain some passing rick: there close she squats.
Now in the middle current shot along
In swift career, now near the eddying side
Whirling amazed, while from the dizzy shore
Some shepherd's dog discerns the floating prize,
And, barking, scours along, then stops, but fears
To venture in; onward meanwhile she sails,
Till, through the broadened vale, the stream expand
In gentler course, and gliding past the bank,
Restore her, fearful, to the fields again.
Floods, ruinous to husbandmen, enrich
The land itself: See how the pendent sprays
That in the flood were dipt, are soiled, and judge
How richly fraught with vegetable food
The stream subsides upon the deluged plain.
The land itself: See how the pendent sprays
141
How richly fraught with vegetable food
The stream subsides upon the deluged plain.
This rich deposit oft unheeded lies
In little creeks, and windings of the stream,
Accumulated deep; whence, if removed
To swell the compost pile, another store,
Soon as another flood recedes, your care rewards.
But if your bank, from Nature, has received
No flexure, no recess, to intercept
The watery wealth, boldly the shore indent
With little bays, narrow and slanting up,
That past each entrance, smooth the current's force
May harmlessly, with easy flow, glide by.
A verdure deep, with many a daisy gemmed,
In early spring, delights the eye of him
Whose compost heaps, rich with alluvial mud,
O'erspread his pasture fields; for thus the roots
At once are shielded from the wintry frosts,
And fed with food, like that which, after showers
Of softest fall, or on a dewy morn,
Cloudy and still, is seen in earthy coils
Vermicular, appearing through the sward.
Thus human art still most successful proves,
When following nature with unconscious step.
In little creeks, and windings of the stream,
Accumulated deep; whence, if removed
To swell the compost pile, another store,
Soon as another flood recedes, your care rewards.
But if your bank, from Nature, has received
No flexure, no recess, to intercept
The watery wealth, boldly the shore indent
With little bays, narrow and slanting up,
That past each entrance, smooth the current's force
May harmlessly, with easy flow, glide by.
A verdure deep, with many a daisy gemmed,
In early spring, delights the eye of him
Whose compost heaps, rich with alluvial mud,
O'erspread his pasture fields; for thus the roots
At once are shielded from the wintry frosts,
142
Of softest fall, or on a dewy morn,
Cloudy and still, is seen in earthy coils
Vermicular, appearing through the sward.
Thus human art still most successful proves,
When following nature with unconscious step.
Full many are the stores of rich manure
That lie neglected. Every sluggish ditch
And stagnant puddle, during summer heats,
Is bottomed with a fertilizing layer.
One sign unerring of a magazine,
On which the power putrescent has produced
Its full effect, is that small insect scum,
Minute and sable as the explosive grain,
Withal so light, that, by the softest breath
Of Autumn breeze, 'tis driven to and fro.
Would husbandmen look round with searching eye,
And use those meliorating means which lie
Oft unsuspected, or, if known, despised,
More rarely would they time and gold expend
For the vile sweepings of the noisome town.
That lie neglected. Every sluggish ditch
And stagnant puddle, during summer heats,
Is bottomed with a fertilizing layer.
One sign unerring of a magazine,
On which the power putrescent has produced
Its full effect, is that small insect scum,
Minute and sable as the explosive grain,
Withal so light, that, by the softest breath
Of Autumn breeze, 'tis driven to and fro.
Would husbandmen look round with searching eye,
And use those meliorating means which lie
Oft unsuspected, or, if known, despised,
143
For the vile sweepings of the noisome town.
The flaxen crop, which now 'tis time to pull,
Steeped in some neighbouring pond, converts
The simple water into strong manure.
Yet many, heedless, bear to far-off moors
The sheaves diminutive, and sink them deep
In sable pits, from whence was scooped the peat:
Or wantonly, in running brooks, immerge
This poison fatal to the scaly tribes.
Alas! below the tainted pool behold
The frequent upturned-side gleam in the sun.
Steeped in some neighbouring pond, converts
The simple water into strong manure.
Yet many, heedless, bear to far-off moors
The sheaves diminutive, and sink them deep
In sable pits, from whence was scooped the peat:
Or wantonly, in running brooks, immerge
This poison fatal to the scaly tribes.
Alas! below the tainted pool behold
The frequent upturned-side gleam in the sun.
Britannia, to thy richest treasures blind,
Treasures that teem in river, firth, and sea,—
Why sleep thy laws, and why that harvest blight
Which, without seed or toil, is gained? Extend
Protection to thy hardy mountaineers,
And, since extruded from their native wilds,
Permit them free possession of the waves.
Treasures that teem in river, firth, and sea,—
Why sleep thy laws, and why that harvest blight
Which, without seed or toil, is gained? Extend
Protection to thy hardy mountaineers,
144
Permit them free possession of the waves.
How sweet, o'er Scotia's hill-encircled seas,
The evening sun-beam, slanting down the glens,
Illumes the scene where now the busy oars
Ply to the chaunted strain,—soft, soothing, wild,—
Of days of other years,—perhaps a song,
Or cadence of some vocal ruin, spared
By ruthless Time, relenting to destroy
Those lays with which the voice of Cona lulled
The weary wave that slumbered on the shore!
But now, with bustling noise, from every stern
Run out the folded nets, and, in the brine
Plunging, leave far behind a foamy track.
The evening sun-beam, slanting down the glens,
Illumes the scene where now the busy oars
Ply to the chaunted strain,—soft, soothing, wild,—
Of days of other years,—perhaps a song,
Or cadence of some vocal ruin, spared
By ruthless Time, relenting to destroy
Those lays with which the voice of Cona lulled
The weary wave that slumbered on the shore!
But now, with bustling noise, from every stern
Run out the folded nets, and, in the brine
Plunging, leave far behind a foamy track.
In lowland dales, at this bland hour of eve,
The village herd slow from the common wends
Each to her well-known stall, while loud the horn
Blows many a needless blast; and homeward shots
Of sated sportsmen, at the moorland skirts,
Returning weary, break the placid hush.
O peaceful war! alas, in other lands,
The sylvan war is silent. Loud the roar
Of thundering ordnance echoes 'mid the rocks
Of proud Iberia, throned amid the blaze
Of pealing tubes; her hands distained
With other vintage than the wine-press yields;
Her crown with thistles, roses, shamrocks, wreathed;
And at her feet the Gallic lilies torn,
Deep-blushing with the blood of murdered babes.
Around her see the shattered columns form,
While Freedom's standard, waving in her grasp,
Soars like an eagle o'er the storm-fraught clouds.
The village herd slow from the common wends
Each to her well-known stall, while loud the horn
Blows many a needless blast; and homeward shots
145
Returning weary, break the placid hush.
O peaceful war! alas, in other lands,
The sylvan war is silent. Loud the roar
Of thundering ordnance echoes 'mid the rocks
Of proud Iberia, throned amid the blaze
Of pealing tubes; her hands distained
With other vintage than the wine-press yields;
Her crown with thistles, roses, shamrocks, wreathed;
And at her feet the Gallic lilies torn,
Deep-blushing with the blood of murdered babes.
Around her see the shattered columns form,
While Freedom's standard, waving in her grasp,
Soars like an eagle o'er the storm-fraught clouds.
147
SEPTEMBER.
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
Thomson.
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
Thomson.
148
ARGUMENT.
Reaping of oats—Partridge-shooting—Equinoctial winds—Rains more injurious to harvest—Hint at a mode of drying corn in the field—Reaping by moonlight—Highland reapers, on Sabbath, reading Gaelic Bible—Apostrophe on the translation of the Bible into the Gaelic language—Leading of corn —Stack-building—Tranquillity and silence of the fields after harvest—Kirn, or harvest-home—Highland reapers returning, hearing their language spoken in their native glen—Pleasure of hearing the Scottish language first spoken on re-crossing the Border—Regret on prospect of leaving Scotland.
149
Clear is the sky, and temperate the air,
That, scarcely stirring, wafts, with gentlest breath,
The gossamer light glittering in the sun.
And now, the wheat and barley harvest o'er,
Blythsome the reapers to the lighter work
Of oaten-field repair, and gaily stoop,
Grasping the lusty handfuls, while they draw,
Close to the ground, the sickle, saving thus
The useful straw for fodder or for lair.
Severe, yet cheerful, both to old and young,
This stooping labour; frequently they pause.
For reason slight, or none; sometimes to gaze
Upon the passing coach, that, 'neath a load
Enormous, seems to stagger as it rolls,
Amid a cloud of dust; sometimes to taunt
The traveller on foot who plods his way,
And, failing in the attempted repartee,
Quickens his pace to shun the vollied shower
Of rustic wit; or by the fowler's gun
Startled, while o'er the neighbouring hedge
The wounded partridge flies, and at their feet
Falls, vainly fluttering, followed fast by dog
And master. Ruthless man! how canst thou see,
As, lifting that poor bird, it in thy face
Looks up—how canst thou see that piteous look,
That blood-drop trickling down its panting breast,
Nor feel compunction for the barbarous deed!
That, scarcely stirring, wafts, with gentlest breath,
The gossamer light glittering in the sun.
And now, the wheat and barley harvest o'er,
Blythsome the reapers to the lighter work
Of oaten-field repair, and gaily stoop,
Grasping the lusty handfuls, while they draw,
Close to the ground, the sickle, saving thus
The useful straw for fodder or for lair.
Severe, yet cheerful, both to old and young,
This stooping labour; frequently they pause.
150
Upon the passing coach, that, 'neath a load
Enormous, seems to stagger as it rolls,
Amid a cloud of dust; sometimes to taunt
The traveller on foot who plods his way,
And, failing in the attempted repartee,
Quickens his pace to shun the vollied shower
Of rustic wit; or by the fowler's gun
Startled, while o'er the neighbouring hedge
The wounded partridge flies, and at their feet
Falls, vainly fluttering, followed fast by dog
And master. Ruthless man! how canst thou see,
As, lifting that poor bird, it in thy face
Looks up—how canst thou see that piteous look,
That blood-drop trickling down its panting breast,
Nor feel compunction for the barbarous deed!
Now come the equinoctial blasts, that lay
Level the sheaves. This danger to avoid,
Look at the forest's topmost twigs, or larch,
That ever shuns the most prevailing wind,
And let your shocks, placed lengthwise to the storm,
Present their sloping ends; else, if they stand
Athwart the sweeping tempest's line, o'erthrown,
They frequent lie drenched in a furrow pool.
Level the sheaves. This danger to avoid,
Look at the forest's topmost twigs, or larch,
151
And let your shocks, placed lengthwise to the storm,
Present their sloping ends; else, if they stand
Athwart the sweeping tempest's line, o'erthrown,
They frequent lie drenched in a furrow pool.
But more destructive to yon new-piled sheaves,
Are rains, which, unaccompanied with wind,
Come drizzling down in ceaseless, soaking fall.
Singly the sheaves must then be placed upright:
Yet even this remedy oft fruitless proves;
For nightly gusts at intervals will blow,
And, with the morning sun, you find your work
Laid prostrate.
Are rains, which, unaccompanied with wind,
Come drizzling down in ceaseless, soaking fall.
Singly the sheaves must then be placed upright:
Yet even this remedy oft fruitless proves;
For nightly gusts at intervals will blow,
And, with the morning sun, you find your work
Laid prostrate.
Strange that implements abound,
In every process of the farmer's art,
Save this; and yet, without much pains or cost,
Means sure there are, by which, in shorter space
Than now required, if but the rain remit,
The dripping crop may thoroughly be dried.
A row of forked stakes draw cross the field,
With spars from cleft to cleft laid all along,—
On these your sheaves, bound near the tops, suspend;
Thus, while descends the rain, fast trickling off
Each dangling sheaf, the capillary bunch,
Free of the plashy ground, no moisture draws.
In every process of the farmer's art,
Save this; and yet, without much pains or cost,
Means sure there are, by which, in shorter space
Than now required, if but the rain remit,
152
A row of forked stakes draw cross the field,
With spars from cleft to cleft laid all along,—
On these your sheaves, bound near the tops, suspend;
Thus, while descends the rain, fast trickling off
Each dangling sheaf, the capillary bunch,
Free of the plashy ground, no moisture draws.
In rainy harvests, when the day is dimmed
With one continued shower, sometimes the night
Clears up, and, through the parting clouds, the moon
Shoots forth, o'er tower and tree, a silvery beam.
Such interval the prudent husbandman
Will eager seize, and by the pallid light,
Though oft obscured by slowly passing clouds,
Will urge the reaping task, nor will desist,
Though on the eve before the hallowed morn,
The brightening change begin; at such a time,
No law of God forbids the needful toil
To be protracted, till the fading orb,
And morning's bird, proclaim the day-spring nigh.
Then let your labour cease, and let not man
Determine rashly when to disregard
That heavenly precept, merciful, benign,
Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day.
On this blest day the weary reaper rests
In thankfulness of heart; see far retired,
Behind a shadowing shock, yon little groupe
Of strangers on the ground, and in their hands,
In tongue unknown in lowland plain, the Word
Of Life ! O grand emprize! O generous boon!
That little book to Scotia's farthest isles,
In each low cottage, comfort speaks, and peace:
Even to the hapless exile, as he lifts
His eldest born, and, weeping, bids him take
A last look of the fast-receding shore,
It consolation speaks, pointing his view
To that blest country whence they'll ne'er depart!
With one continued shower, sometimes the night
Clears up, and, through the parting clouds, the moon
Shoots forth, o'er tower and tree, a silvery beam.
Such interval the prudent husbandman
Will eager seize, and by the pallid light,
Though oft obscured by slowly passing clouds,
Will urge the reaping task, nor will desist,
Though on the eve before the hallowed morn,
The brightening change begin; at such a time,
No law of God forbids the needful toil
To be protracted, till the fading orb,
153
Then let your labour cease, and let not man
Determine rashly when to disregard
That heavenly precept, merciful, benign,
Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day.
On this blest day the weary reaper rests
In thankfulness of heart; see far retired,
Behind a shadowing shock, yon little groupe
Of strangers on the ground, and in their hands,
In tongue unknown in lowland plain, the Word
Of Life ! O grand emprize! O generous boon!
That little book to Scotia's farthest isles,
In each low cottage, comfort speaks, and peace:
Even to the hapless exile, as he lifts
His eldest born, and, weeping, bids him take
A last look of the fast-receding shore,
It consolation speaks, pointing his view
To that blest country whence they'll ne'er depart!
154
Soon as, by drying power of sun and wind,
Your crop is ready for the stack or barn,
One hour delay not; every other work
Defer, and, cheery, o'er the ridges drive
The high-piled wains; then back, with quickened pace,
Return, and lighter load of smiling elves,
Whose purple cheeks the bramble vintage dyes:
Haste, quick reload, and back, and back again,
The journey short repeat, till all your fields
Are to the stubble cleared, and gradual rise
The cheerful pyramids.
Your crop is ready for the stack or barn,
One hour delay not; every other work
Defer, and, cheery, o'er the ridges drive
The high-piled wains; then back, with quickened pace,
Return, and lighter load of smiling elves,
Whose purple cheeks the bramble vintage dyes:
Haste, quick reload, and back, and back again,
The journey short repeat, till all your fields
Are to the stubble cleared, and gradual rise
The cheerful pyramids.
On transverse boughs
Construct them with due care, for thus you guard
'Gainst earthy damps, and thus the pilfering mouse
More rarely will intrude, than when your sheaves
Are laid in contact with the burrowed soil.
Against this evil let the screeching owl,
A sacred bird be held; protect her nest,
Whether in neighbouring crag, within the reach
Of venturous boy, it hang, or in the rent
Of some old echoing tower, where her sad plaint
The live-long night she moans, save when she skims,
Prowling, along the ground, or, through your barn,
Her nightly rounds performs; unwelcome guest!
Whose meteor-eyes shoot horror through the dark,
And numb the tiny revellers with dread.
Construct them with due care, for thus you guard
'Gainst earthy damps, and thus the pilfering mouse
More rarely will intrude, than when your sheaves
Are laid in contact with the burrowed soil.
Against this evil let the screeching owl,
A sacred bird be held; protect her nest,
Whether in neighbouring crag, within the reach
155
Of some old echoing tower, where her sad plaint
The live-long night she moans, save when she skims,
Prowling, along the ground, or, through your barn,
Her nightly rounds performs; unwelcome guest!
Whose meteor-eyes shoot horror through the dark,
And numb the tiny revellers with dread.
Of forms the circular is most approved,
As offering, in proportion to its bulk,
The smallest surface to the storm's assault.
To turn the driving rain, the outer sheaves,
With bottoms lower than the rustling tops,
Should sloping lie. When to the crowning sheaf
Arrived, distrust the sky; the thatch lay on,
And bind with strawy coils. O pleasant sight!
These lozenzed ropes that, at the tapering top,
End in a wisp-wound pinnacle, a gladsome perch,
On which already sits poor Robin, proud,
And sweetly sings a song, to Harvest Home!
As offering, in proportion to its bulk,
The smallest surface to the storm's assault.
To turn the driving rain, the outer sheaves,
With bottoms lower than the rustling tops,
Should sloping lie. When to the crowning sheaf
Arrived, distrust the sky; the thatch lay on,
And bind with strawy coils. O pleasant sight!
These lozenzed ropes that, at the tapering top,
End in a wisp-wound pinnacle, a gladsome perch,
On which already sits poor Robin, proud,
And sweetly sings a song, to Harvest Home!
156
The fields are swept, a tranquil silence reigns,
And pause of rural labour, far and near.
Deep is the morning's hush; from grange to grange
Responsive cock-crows, in the distance heard
Distinct as if at hand, soothe the pleased ear:
And oft, at intervals, the flail, remote,
Sends faintly through the air its deafened sound.
And pause of rural labour, far and near.
Deep is the morning's hush; from grange to grange
Responsive cock-crows, in the distance heard
Distinct as if at hand, soothe the pleased ear:
And oft, at intervals, the flail, remote,
Sends faintly through the air its deafened sound.
Bright now the shortening day, and blythe its close,
When to the kirn , the neighbours, old and young,
Come dropping in to share the well-earned feast.
The smith aside his ponderous sledge has thrown,
Raked up his fire, and cooled the hissing brand:
His sluice the miller shuts; and from the barn
The threshers hie, to don their Sunday coats.
Simply adorned, with ribbons, blue and pink,
Bound round their braided hair, the lasses trip
To grace the feast, which now is smoaking ranged
On tables of all shape, and size, and height,
Joined awkwardly, yet to the crowded guests
A seemly joyous show, all loaded well:
But chief, at the board-head, the haggis round
Attracts all eyes, and even the goodman's grace
Prunes of its wonted length. With eager knife,
The quivering globe he then prepares to broach;
While for her gown some ancient matron quakes,
Her gown of silken woof, all figured thick
With roses white, far larger than the life,
On azure ground,—her grannam's wedding garb,
Old as that year when Sheriffmuir was fought.
Old tales are told, and well-known jests abound,
Which laughter meets half way as ancient friends,
Nor, like the worldling, spurns because thread-bare.
When to the kirn , the neighbours, old and young,
Come dropping in to share the well-earned feast.
The smith aside his ponderous sledge has thrown,
Raked up his fire, and cooled the hissing brand:
His sluice the miller shuts; and from the barn
The threshers hie, to don their Sunday coats.
Simply adorned, with ribbons, blue and pink,
Bound round their braided hair, the lasses trip
To grace the feast, which now is smoaking ranged
On tables of all shape, and size, and height,
157
A seemly joyous show, all loaded well:
But chief, at the board-head, the haggis round
Attracts all eyes, and even the goodman's grace
Prunes of its wonted length. With eager knife,
The quivering globe he then prepares to broach;
While for her gown some ancient matron quakes,
Her gown of silken woof, all figured thick
With roses white, far larger than the life,
On azure ground,—her grannam's wedding garb,
Old as that year when Sheriffmuir was fought.
Old tales are told, and well-known jests abound,
Which laughter meets half way as ancient friends,
Nor, like the worldling, spurns because thread-bare.
When ended the repast, and board and bench
Vanish like thought, by many hands removed,
Up strikes the fiddle; quick upon the floor
The youths lead out the half-reluctant maids,
Bashful at first, and darning through the reels
With timid steps, till, by the music cheered,
With free and airy step, they bound along,
Then deftly wheel, and to their partners face,
Turning this side, now that, with varying step.
Sometimes two ancient couples o'er the floor,
Skim through a reel, and think of youthful years.
Vanish like thought, by many hands removed,
Up strikes the fiddle; quick upon the floor
The youths lead out the half-reluctant maids,
Bashful at first, and darning through the reels
158
With free and airy step, they bound along,
Then deftly wheel, and to their partners face,
Turning this side, now that, with varying step.
Sometimes two ancient couples o'er the floor,
Skim through a reel, and think of youthful years.
Meanwhile the frothing bickers
, soon as filled,
Are drained, and to the gauntrees oft return,
Where gossips sit, unmindful of the dance.
Salubrious beverage! Were thy sterling worth
But duly prized, no more the alembic vast
Would, like some dire volcano, vomit forth
Its floods of liquid fire, and far and wide
Lay waste the land; no more the fruitful boon
Of twice ten shrievedoms, into poison turned,
Would taint the very life-blood of the poor,
Shrivelling their heart-strings like a burning scroll.
Are drained, and to the gauntrees oft return,
Where gossips sit, unmindful of the dance.
Salubrious beverage! Were thy sterling worth
But duly prized, no more the alembic vast
Would, like some dire volcano, vomit forth
Its floods of liquid fire, and far and wide
Lay waste the land; no more the fruitful boon
Of twice ten shrievedoms, into poison turned,
Would taint the very life-blood of the poor,
Shrivelling their heart-strings like a burning scroll.
159
As merrily, in many a lowland vale,
These annual revels fill, with simple glee,
The husbandman, and cottar, man and child;—
Far on their homeward way, the Highland bands
Approach the mountain range, the bound sublime
Of Scotia's beauteous plains, while gleams of joy,
Not tearless, tint each face: As when the clouds,
That lowr along those steeps, slowly ascend,
And whiten, as they upward flit, in flakes
Still thin and thinner spreading, till, at last,
Each lofty summit gleams, each torrent-fall
Reflects the radiance of the setting sun.
And now, upon the way-worn traveller's ear,
The much-loved language, in his native glen,
Seems music sweet:—what joy! scarce more he feels
When, in the lowly thatch his sickle hung,
He clasps his children to his throbbing heart.
These annual revels fill, with simple glee,
The husbandman, and cottar, man and child;—
Far on their homeward way, the Highland bands
Approach the mountain range, the bound sublime
Of Scotia's beauteous plains, while gleams of joy,
Not tearless, tint each face: As when the clouds,
That lowr along those steeps, slowly ascend,
And whiten, as they upward flit, in flakes
Still thin and thinner spreading, till, at last,
Each lofty summit gleams, each torrent-fall
Reflects the radiance of the setting sun.
And now, upon the way-worn traveller's ear,
The much-loved language, in his native glen,
Seems music sweet:—what joy! scarce more he feels
When, in the lowly thatch his sickle hung,
He clasps his children to his throbbing heart.
How pleasant came thy rushing, silver Tweed!
Upon my ear, when, after roaming long
In southern plains, I've reached thy lovely bank!
How bright, renowned Sark! thy little stream,
Like ray of columned light chacing a shower,
Would cross my homeward path; how sweet the sound,
When I, to hear the Doric tongue's reply,
Would ask thy well-known name!
Upon my ear, when, after roaming long
160
How bright, renowned Sark! thy little stream,
Like ray of columned light chacing a shower,
Would cross my homeward path; how sweet the sound,
When I, to hear the Doric tongue's reply,
Would ask thy well-known name!
And must I leave,
Dear land, thy bonny braes, thy dales,
Each haunted by its wizard stream, o'erhung:
With all the varied charms of bush and tree;
Thy towering hills, the lineaments sublime,
Unchanged, of Nature's face, which wont to fill
The eye of Wallace, as he, musing, planned
The grand emprize of setting Scotland free!
And must I leave the friends of youthful years,
And mould my heart anew, to take the stamp
Of foreign friendships, in a foreign land,
And learn to love the music of strange tongues!—
Yes, I may love the music of strange tongues,
And mould my heart anew, to take the stamp
Of foreign friendships, in a foreign land:—
But, to my parched mouth's roof cleave this tongue,
My fancy fade into the yellow leaf,
And this oft-pausing heart forget to throb,
If, Scotland! thee and thine I e'er forget.
Dear land, thy bonny braes, thy dales,
Each haunted by its wizard stream, o'erhung:
With all the varied charms of bush and tree;
Thy towering hills, the lineaments sublime,
Unchanged, of Nature's face, which wont to fill
The eye of Wallace, as he, musing, planned
The grand emprize of setting Scotland free!
And must I leave the friends of youthful years,
And mould my heart anew, to take the stamp
Of foreign friendships, in a foreign land,
And learn to love the music of strange tongues!—
Yes, I may love the music of strange tongues,
161
Of foreign friendships, in a foreign land:—
But, to my parched mouth's roof cleave this tongue,
My fancy fade into the yellow leaf,
And this oft-pausing heart forget to throb,
If, Scotland! thee and thine I e'er forget.
163
OCTOBER.
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;
Potatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath.
Burns.
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;
Potatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath.
Burns.
164
ARGUMENT.
Appearance of this month—Prognostic of early frost —Turning up potatoes with the plough—Best mode of storing them—Wheat sowing—Steeping of seed —Tendency to disease in man and animals at this season—Defects in horses now most easily seen— Hints for choosing a work-horse—Hints for breaking young horses—Season for planting—Error of planting firs by way of nurses to other species of trees—Woods of pine—Their deformity—Misapplication of ground to fir plantations, where deciduous trees would thrive—The different soils and situations most suitable to the different species of trees—Various tints of different trees during this month—Nutting—Halloween.
165
Fair shines the sun, but with a meekened smile
Regretful, on the variegated woods
And glittering streams, where floats the hazel spray,
The yellow leaf, or rowan's ruby bunch.
Hushed are the groves; each woodland pipe is mute,
Save when the redbreast mourns the falling leaf.
How plaintively, in interrupted trills,
He sings the dirge of the departing year!
Of various plume and chirp, the flocking birds
Alight on hedge or bush, where, late concealed,
Their nests now hang apparent to the view.
Regretful, on the variegated woods
And glittering streams, where floats the hazel spray,
The yellow leaf, or rowan's ruby bunch.
Hushed are the groves; each woodland pipe is mute,
Save when the redbreast mourns the falling leaf.
How plaintively, in interrupted trills,
He sings the dirge of the departing year!
Of various plume and chirp, the flocking birds
Alight on hedge or bush, where, late concealed,
Their nests now hang apparent to the view.
166
If, 'mid the tassels of the leafless ash,
A fieldfare flock alight, for early frosts
Prepare, and timely save the precious root,
Before the penetrating power has reached
The unseen stores. If, planted in fair rows,
They marshalled grew, the plough will best perform
The reaping task: amid the tumbling soil,
The vegetable mine, exposed to view,
The gatherers' basket fills.
A fieldfare flock alight, for early frosts
Prepare, and timely save the precious root,
Before the penetrating power has reached
The unseen stores. If, planted in fair rows,
They marshalled grew, the plough will best perform
The reaping task: amid the tumbling soil,
The vegetable mine, exposed to view,
The gatherers' basket fills.
Some, to secure
From possibility of frost's access,
Dig pits, and there throw in the gathered crop:
A mode unwise; for thus, if water gain
Admittance to the store, there it collects,
And to itself assimilates the whole.
Exclusion of the atmosphere is gained,
As well by heaping earth above the roots,
As by interring them. Chuse, then, a spot
The driest of the field, and on the surface pile
A heap pyramidal, bedded on straw.
Let not the bulk be great, lest pressure bruise
The under-layers; and do not grudge the toil
Of subdivision into many heaps.
In thickness let the covering cone be more
Than what the strict necessity requires,
And loosely laid, save at the surface, smooth
And flattened down.
From possibility of frost's access,
Dig pits, and there throw in the gathered crop:
A mode unwise; for thus, if water gain
Admittance to the store, there it collects,
And to itself assimilates the whole.
Exclusion of the atmosphere is gained,
As well by heaping earth above the roots,
As by interring them. Chuse, then, a spot
The driest of the field, and on the surface pile
167
Let not the bulk be great, lest pressure bruise
The under-layers; and do not grudge the toil
Of subdivision into many heaps.
In thickness let the covering cone be more
Than what the strict necessity requires,
And loosely laid, save at the surface, smooth
And flattened down.
How ceaseless is the round
Of rural labour! Soon as on the field
The withered haulms and suckers crackling blaze,
And, with their far-extending volumes, load
The wings of Autumn's latest lingering breeze,
The wheaten seed-time all your care demands:
Delay not, then, but watchful seize the tide ,
That, ere begins the frost's severer sway,
Hostile to vegetation's earliest stage,
The fibres may have time, shooting around,
To penetrate, and fasten in the soil.
Of rural labour! Soon as on the field
The withered haulms and suckers crackling blaze,
And, with their far-extending volumes, load
The wings of Autumn's latest lingering breeze,
The wheaten seed-time all your care demands:
Delay not, then, but watchful seize the tide ,
That, ere begins the frost's severer sway,
Hostile to vegetation's earliest stage,
168
To penetrate, and fasten in the soil.
In briny pickle strong, some drench the grain,
And from the surface scum the worthless part.
When thus prepared, with lusty even growth
The embryons sprout; and, while all nature droops,
The bladed ridges, robed in tender green,
Revive the heart with presages of Spring.
And from the surface scum the worthless part.
When thus prepared, with lusty even growth
The embryons sprout; and, while all nature droops,
The bladed ridges, robed in tender green,
Revive the heart with presages of Spring.
While still the ambiguous season, unconfirmed,
Retains some summer signs, yet more displays
Of Winter's near approach, man, bird, and beast,
Begin to droop, as if the waning year
Some strange malignant influence had dispensed.
Chief in the horse, each weakness, hurt, or flaw,
Which genial summer food, and genial warmth,
Will oft conceal, appears, nor can elude
Even eyes unskilled. Now is the buyer's time
To seek the crowded fair. A slow survey
First take of all the rows: examine well,
In his quiescent state, the horse that hits
Your roaming eye: mark if one foot he points.
Unfailing sign of lameness: mark his eyes,
If slumberous or alert: till well surveyed,
Forbear your hands, for, handling, you arouse
The sluggish into spirit not their own.
Of signs of strength, the least deceitful are,
A neck of muscle, which, when sideward turned,
Seems like a cable coil of some great ship,
And under it a breast jutting and broad,
Knurled like the trunk of ancient oak or elm;
Short pastern joints; full hoofs, and deep withal
Of sable hue; a waist compact and round;
Round haunch; high shoulder; head not large,
With eyes full-orbed. For temper watch his head,
And, if he greet your gently-stroking hand
With ears laid backward, and projecting snout,
Proceed elsewhere, and make another choice.
Retains some summer signs, yet more displays
Of Winter's near approach, man, bird, and beast,
Begin to droop, as if the waning year
Some strange malignant influence had dispensed.
Chief in the horse, each weakness, hurt, or flaw,
Which genial summer food, and genial warmth,
Will oft conceal, appears, nor can elude
Even eyes unskilled. Now is the buyer's time
To seek the crowded fair. A slow survey
169
In his quiescent state, the horse that hits
Your roaming eye: mark if one foot he points.
Unfailing sign of lameness: mark his eyes,
If slumberous or alert: till well surveyed,
Forbear your hands, for, handling, you arouse
The sluggish into spirit not their own.
Of signs of strength, the least deceitful are,
A neck of muscle, which, when sideward turned,
Seems like a cable coil of some great ship,
And under it a breast jutting and broad,
Knurled like the trunk of ancient oak or elm;
Short pastern joints; full hoofs, and deep withal
Of sable hue; a waist compact and round;
Round haunch; high shoulder; head not large,
With eyes full-orbed. For temper watch his head,
And, if he greet your gently-stroking hand
With ears laid backward, and projecting snout,
Proceed elsewhere, and make another choice.
170
If on a horse untrained to load or draught
Your choice should fall,—by lenient, soothing mean,
Tame, not subdue, his spirit to the yoke.
At first, a lightly-loaded sack, to mill
Or market, let him bear, and often stroke
His trembling neck, and cheer him with your voice.
Let not the lash, or stern command, alarm
His startled ear; but gently lead him on.—
O think how short the time, since, joyous free,
He roamed the mead, or, by his mother's side,
Attended plough or harrow, scampering gay;
And think how soon his years of youth and strength
Will fly, and leave him to that wretched doom
Which ever terminates the horse's life,—
Toil more and more severe, as age, decay,
Disease, unnerve his limbs, till, sinking faint
Upon the road, the brutal stroke resounds.
Your choice should fall,—by lenient, soothing mean,
Tame, not subdue, his spirit to the yoke.
At first, a lightly-loaded sack, to mill
Or market, let him bear, and often stroke
His trembling neck, and cheer him with your voice.
Let not the lash, or stern command, alarm
His startled ear; but gently lead him on.—
O think how short the time, since, joyous free,
He roamed the mead, or, by his mother's side,
Attended plough or harrow, scampering gay;
And think how soon his years of youth and strength
Will fly, and leave him to that wretched doom
Which ever terminates the horse's life,—
Toil more and more severe, as age, decay,
Disease, unnerve his limbs, till, sinking faint
Upon the road, the brutal stroke resounds.
When, on the rustling pathway of the grove,
Falling from branch to branch, the frequent leaf
Gently alights, and whispers as it falls,
How short, how fleeting, is the life of man!
Then is the planting season; then the sap
His ceased to circulate; and while the power
Of vegetation slumbering lies, the change
From the warm fostering spot, where first the plant
Put forth its leaf, remains unfelt, till Spring,
By slow degrees, awake the vital spark,
And, with a whispering zephyr, gently breathe
O'er swelling bud and slowly-spreading leaf,
A sweet oblivion of its infant couch.
Falling from branch to branch, the frequent leaf
171
How short, how fleeting, is the life of man!
Then is the planting season; then the sap
His ceased to circulate; and while the power
Of vegetation slumbering lies, the change
From the warm fostering spot, where first the plant
Put forth its leaf, remains unfelt, till Spring,
By slow degrees, awake the vital spark,
And, with a whispering zephyr, gently breathe
O'er swelling bud and slowly-spreading leaf,
A sweet oblivion of its infant couch.
Some mingle, with the fair leaf-bearing trees,
The bristled piny tribes; and, by a word
Misled, believe that thus they nurse the plants.
But mark the progress:—rapid is the growth
Of all the race of pines; soon they o'ertop,
O'erspread, and, like some nurses, overlay,
And choak their tender charge; or, if betimes
They're thinned, still with their taller growth they shade
From light and heat, the lower-spreading kinds;
And thus, surrounded by a sable ring
Of firs, as in a pit, lurks the poor oak,
Beholding but the zenith of the sky.
What tree ere throve doomed to perpetual shade?
Is warmth superfluous to the youngling plant?
Does not the genial sunbeam of the Spring
Gladden, with kindly influence, bud and spray?—
To break the blast, not to exclude the air,
And light, and heat, be that your aim, an end
That's best attained by other obvious means
Than mingling pines as nurses to your groves.
Draw them in rows along the bounding line;
And, in proportion to the planted space,
And different degrees of slope and height,
Let other piny rows athwart be drawn.
The bristled piny tribes; and, by a word
Misled, believe that thus they nurse the plants.
But mark the progress:—rapid is the growth
Of all the race of pines; soon they o'ertop,
O'erspread, and, like some nurses, overlay,
And choak their tender charge; or, if betimes
They're thinned, still with their taller growth they shade
172
And thus, surrounded by a sable ring
Of firs, as in a pit, lurks the poor oak,
Beholding but the zenith of the sky.
What tree ere throve doomed to perpetual shade?
Is warmth superfluous to the youngling plant?
Does not the genial sunbeam of the Spring
Gladden, with kindly influence, bud and spray?—
To break the blast, not to exclude the air,
And light, and heat, be that your aim, an end
That's best attained by other obvious means
Than mingling pines as nurses to your groves.
Draw them in rows along the bounding line;
And, in proportion to the planted space,
And different degrees of slope and height,
Let other piny rows athwart be drawn.
Not satisfied with using firs to screen
The leafy tribes, improvers some there are,
Enamoured of deformity and gloom,
Who strangely deem they beautify the land
By planting woods of pine, or sable belts,
Like funeral processions, long drawn out.
But not the eye alone these woeful groves
Offend; no cheerful rustle, like the trees
With smiling foliage clothed, give they;
A rushing sound moans through their waving boughs,
Grateful to him alone whose sorrow is past hope.
The leafy tribes, improvers some there are,
Enamoured of deformity and gloom,
173
By planting woods of pine, or sable belts,
Like funeral processions, long drawn out.
But not the eye alone these woeful groves
Offend; no cheerful rustle, like the trees
With smiling foliage clothed, give they;
A rushing sound moans through their waving boughs,
Grateful to him alone whose sorrow is past hope.
Nor is it only on the barren moor,
Or mountain bleak, these northern hordes intrude;
No, they usurp the warm and sheltered glen,
Supplant the levelled bank of greenwood trees,
And, with their poisonous drop, the primrose wan,
The purple violet, the columbine,
And all the lowly children of the vale,
Both flower and flowering underwood, destroy.
Or mountain bleak, these northern hordes intrude;
No, they usurp the warm and sheltered glen,
Supplant the levelled bank of greenwood trees,
And, with their poisonous drop, the primrose wan,
The purple violet, the columbine,
And all the lowly children of the vale,
Both flower and flowering underwood, destroy.
Idolaters of piny groves maintain,
That no where else, when fair deciduous trees
Their foliage lose, does verdure cheer the eye.
Verdure! O word abused! does that dark range,
Dingy and sullen, sable as the cloud
That low'rs on Winter's brow, deserve the name
Of verdure!—lovely hue! that makes yon field
Of wheaten braird smile cheerful 'mid the gloom
Of Autumn's close, and threats of muttering storms
To eyes unprejudiced by Fashion's law,
More pleasing far the leafless forest scene,
Whether beneath the storm it undulate
A deep-empurpled sea, or tranquil rest
In moveless beauty, while the frosty power
Adorns each spray and twig with fleecy plumes.
That no where else, when fair deciduous trees
174
Verdure! O word abused! does that dark range,
Dingy and sullen, sable as the cloud
That low'rs on Winter's brow, deserve the name
Of verdure!—lovely hue! that makes yon field
Of wheaten braird smile cheerful 'mid the gloom
Of Autumn's close, and threats of muttering storms
To eyes unprejudiced by Fashion's law,
More pleasing far the leafless forest scene,
Whether beneath the storm it undulate
A deep-empurpled sea, or tranquil rest
In moveless beauty, while the frosty power
Adorns each spray and twig with fleecy plumes.
Let lovers of the forest first consult
The nature of the ground. A moist abode
Best suits the willow tribes, yet will they thrive
In any soil. The alder, too, prefers
A station dank; chiefly the river side
It loves to haunt, down to the very brink,
Rooted oft-times beneath the gliding stream,
While round each tree a kindred bush upsprings.
In moist, not swampy soils, the elm delights;
No tree bears transplantation like the elm;
With sure success the elm may be removed,
Even when the twentieth spring draws forth the buds.
No scanty foliage, no decaying twigs,
Betoken signs of change: clinging to life,
An elm-tree stake puts forth young shoots, and spreads
Its verdant foliage in the gap it fills.
The dry hill-side, though sterile be the mould,
Delights the beechen tree. In every soil,
Or warm or cold, or moist or dry, the birch
Will rear its smooth and glossy stem, and spread
Its odoriferous foliage. Loamy moulds
Best suit the ash; yet will it thrive in all,
Save in stiff clays, or in the oozy swamp.
The monarch of the woods delights in plains
And valley sides, nor shuns the mountain's brow;
Regardless of the storm, the oak's vast limbs
Stretch equal all around, and scorn the blast:
So, when transformed into the floating towers,
That bear Britannia's thunders o'er the deep,
Heaved on the mountain billows, they defy
The elemental war, the battle's strife,
And proudly quell the storm of flood and fire.
But fitter far such themes for him who sung
Ye Mariners of England! in a strain
More grand, inspired, than e'er from Grecian lyre
Or Roman flowed,—that bard of soul sublime,
Who, in prophetic vision, dared to light
The torch of Hope at Nature's funeral pile!
The nature of the ground. A moist abode
Best suits the willow tribes, yet will they thrive
In any soil. The alder, too, prefers
A station dank; chiefly the river side
It loves to haunt, down to the very brink,
175
While round each tree a kindred bush upsprings.
In moist, not swampy soils, the elm delights;
No tree bears transplantation like the elm;
With sure success the elm may be removed,
Even when the twentieth spring draws forth the buds.
No scanty foliage, no decaying twigs,
Betoken signs of change: clinging to life,
An elm-tree stake puts forth young shoots, and spreads
Its verdant foliage in the gap it fills.
The dry hill-side, though sterile be the mould,
Delights the beechen tree. In every soil,
Or warm or cold, or moist or dry, the birch
Will rear its smooth and glossy stem, and spread
Its odoriferous foliage. Loamy moulds
Best suit the ash; yet will it thrive in all,
Save in stiff clays, or in the oozy swamp.
The monarch of the woods delights in plains
And valley sides, nor shuns the mountain's brow;
Regardless of the storm, the oak's vast limbs
176
So, when transformed into the floating towers,
That bear Britannia's thunders o'er the deep,
Heaved on the mountain billows, they defy
The elemental war, the battle's strife,
And proudly quell the storm of flood and fire.
But fitter far such themes for him who sung
Ye Mariners of England! in a strain
More grand, inspired, than e'er from Grecian lyre
Or Roman flowed,—that bard of soul sublime,
Who, in prophetic vision, dared to light
The torch of Hope at Nature's funeral pile!
Meeter for me, amid the rustling leaves,
To trace the woodland path, and mark the tints
So varied, yet harmonious, that adorn
The trees retentive of their summer robes:—
The beech of orange hue; the oak embrowned;
The yellow elm; the sycamore so red;
The alder's verdure deep, of all the trees
The latest to disrobe; the hazle, hung
With russet clusters:—hark! that crashing branch,
As to the maid he loves, the clambering youth
Down weighs the husky store; while others catch,
With hooked rods, the highest slender sprays,
And bend them to some upward stretching hand,
Or shake the ripened shower, and, dexterous, twitch,
From the fair bosom's shield, the blushing prize.
One climbs the precipice's crag, and stretches,
Dizzying the gazer's eye, in dread attempt,
His arm, to reach some richly-clustered branch;
And though he's foiled, perhaps a trembling voice,
And upturned eye, with eager clasping hands,
Make disappointment sweet, and first confess
A mutual flame which oft the tongue denied.
To trace the woodland path, and mark the tints
So varied, yet harmonious, that adorn
The trees retentive of their summer robes:—
The beech of orange hue; the oak embrowned;
The yellow elm; the sycamore so red;
The alder's verdure deep, of all the trees
177
With russet clusters:—hark! that crashing branch,
As to the maid he loves, the clambering youth
Down weighs the husky store; while others catch,
With hooked rods, the highest slender sprays,
And bend them to some upward stretching hand,
Or shake the ripened shower, and, dexterous, twitch,
From the fair bosom's shield, the blushing prize.
One climbs the precipice's crag, and stretches,
Dizzying the gazer's eye, in dread attempt,
His arm, to reach some richly-clustered branch;
And though he's foiled, perhaps a trembling voice,
And upturned eye, with eager clasping hands,
Make disappointment sweet, and first confess
A mutual flame which oft the tongue denied.
And now they bear the woodland harvest home,
And store it up for blythesome Hallowe'en,
A night of mirth and glee to old and young.
With the first star that twinkles in the east,
From house to house, joyous, the schoolboys bear
Their new-pulled stocks, while, 'mid the curled blades,
A few dim candles in derision shine
Of Romish rites, now happily forgot.
As each goes out, the bearer homeward hies,
And 'twixt the lintel and the thatch, lays up
The well singed emblem of his future mate.
Then round the fire, full many a cottage ring
Cheerful convenes, to burn the boding nuts.
Some lovingly, in mutual flames, consume,
Till, wasting into embers grey, (sign of long life
Together spent), they cause sometimes the event
Believed to be foretold; some, when thrown in,
Exploding, bound away, as if they spurned
Their proffered partner. Marion to the wood,
Thus slighted, hied, from rowan-tree two-stemmed,
A sprig to pull; with quaking heart she passed
The gloomy firs, the lightning-shivered oak,
The ruined mill, all silent 'neath the moon.
Oft did she pause, and once she would have turned,
As cross her path the startled howlet flew,
Sailing along, but, from an aged thorn,
The stock-dove faintly coo'd beside his mate;—
Forward she sped, and with the dear-won prize,
Breathless returned, nor waited long, till, lo,
A sister-spray adorned her true-love's breast.
And now, by turns, the laughing circle strives,
Plunging, to catch the floating fruit, that still
Eludes the attempt; nor is the triple spell
Of dishes, ranged to cheat the groping hand,
Forgot, nor aught of all the various sports
Which hoar tradition hands from age to age.
And store it up for blythesome Hallowe'en,
A night of mirth and glee to old and young.
With the first star that twinkles in the east,
178
Their new-pulled stocks, while, 'mid the curled blades,
A few dim candles in derision shine
Of Romish rites, now happily forgot.
As each goes out, the bearer homeward hies,
And 'twixt the lintel and the thatch, lays up
The well singed emblem of his future mate.
Then round the fire, full many a cottage ring
Cheerful convenes, to burn the boding nuts.
Some lovingly, in mutual flames, consume,
Till, wasting into embers grey, (sign of long life
Together spent), they cause sometimes the event
Believed to be foretold; some, when thrown in,
Exploding, bound away, as if they spurned
Their proffered partner. Marion to the wood,
Thus slighted, hied, from rowan-tree two-stemmed,
A sprig to pull; with quaking heart she passed
The gloomy firs, the lightning-shivered oak,
The ruined mill, all silent 'neath the moon.
Oft did she pause, and once she would have turned,
179
Sailing along, but, from an aged thorn,
The stock-dove faintly coo'd beside his mate;—
Forward she sped, and with the dear-won prize,
Breathless returned, nor waited long, till, lo,
A sister-spray adorned her true-love's breast.
And now, by turns, the laughing circle strives,
Plunging, to catch the floating fruit, that still
Eludes the attempt; nor is the triple spell
Of dishes, ranged to cheat the groping hand,
Forgot, nor aught of all the various sports
Which hoar tradition hands from age to age.
181
NOVEMBER.
While tumbling, brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
Burns.
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
Burns.
182
ARGUMENT.
Early arrival of the woodcock a prognostic of an early and severe winter—Grass-fields to be saved from poaching at this season—Ploughing of old leas— Care of the team—Turnip-fields staked off for sheep—An adjoining grass-field necessary for sheep during the night—A serene night—A hazy night— Various appearances of Will-a-Wisp—Night-scene at sea in tropical regions—Cottage-fireside—Serene morning—Hoar-frost—Withered aspect of sward, except at fountain brinks and rills—Hence the idea of irrigation—The means of irrigation very general in Britain—Sketches of this mode of improvement.
183
While wind and rain drive through the half-stripped trees,
Fanners and flails go merrily in the barn.
Each brook and river sweeps along deep tinged,
While down the glen, louder and quicker, sounds
The busy mill-clack. On the woodland paths
No more the leaves rustle, but matted lie,
All drenched and soiled; the foliage of the oak,
Blent with the lowliest leaves that decked the brier,
Or creeping bramble, mouldering to decay.
Fanners and flails go merrily in the barn.
Each brook and river sweeps along deep tinged,
While down the glen, louder and quicker, sounds
The busy mill-clack. On the woodland paths
No more the leaves rustle, but matted lie,
All drenched and soiled; the foliage of the oak,
Blent with the lowliest leaves that decked the brier,
Or creeping bramble, mouldering to decay.
184
Oft at this season, near an oozy spring,
O'erhung by alder boughs, the woodcock haunts;
(Sure harbinger, when thus so early come,
Of early winter tedious and severe);
There he imbibes his watery food; till, scared
By man and dog, upward, on pinion strong,
He springs, and o'er the summits of the grove,
Flies far, unless, flashing, the quick-aimed tube
Arrest his flight, and bring him lifeless down,
With his long bleeding bill sunk in the marsh.
O'erhung by alder boughs, the woodcock haunts;
(Sure harbinger, when thus so early come,
Of early winter tedious and severe);
There he imbibes his watery food; till, scared
By man and dog, upward, on pinion strong,
He springs, and o'er the summits of the grove,
Flies far, unless, flashing, the quick-aimed tube
Arrest his flight, and bring him lifeless down,
With his long bleeding bill sunk in the marsh.
From hawless thorn to brier, the chirping flocks
Flit shivering, while, behind yon naked hedge,
Drooping, the cattle stand, waiting the hour
When to the shed or stall they shall return.
Flit shivering, while, behind yon naked hedge,
Drooping, the cattle stand, waiting the hour
When to the shed or stall they shall return.
Ye who, on Spring's return, a smooth thick sward
Upon your fields would see, must spare them now.
At sunny intervals, you may indulge
Your prisoned herd to pick the withering blade,
And the fresh breeze inhale, or to the bank
Of the swollen river wend, to quench their thirst.
But if your soil be clay, let not a hoof
E'er cross your fields, save when the frosty power
Has hardened them against the poaching hoof.
Upon your fields would see, must spare them now.
At sunny intervals, you may indulge
185
And the fresh breeze inhale, or to the bank
Of the swollen river wend, to quench their thirst.
But if your soil be clay, let not a hoof
E'er cross your fields, save when the frosty power
Has hardened them against the poaching hoof.
Old leas may now be ploughed, though on the plough
Patters the hail shower, whitening all the ridge.
But loose betimes, and through the shallow pond
Drive the tired team; then bed them snug and warm;
And with no stinting hand their toil reward.
Assiduous care the waning year requires,
For then all animated nature tends
To sickliness and death. Much it imports
To cleanse each hoof and pastern; but beware
Of clipping close the fetlock, robbing thus
The fretted skin of Nature's simple fence
Against the contact of the encrusting soil,
Patters the hail shower, whitening all the ridge.
But loose betimes, and through the shallow pond
Drive the tired team; then bed them snug and warm;
And with no stinting hand their toil reward.
Assiduous care the waning year requires,
For then all animated nature tends
To sickliness and death. Much it imports
To cleanse each hoof and pastern; but beware
Of clipping close the fetlock, robbing thus
The fretted skin of Nature's simple fence
Against the contact of the encrusting soil,
186
While on the turnip field, in portions due
Staked off, the bleating flock their juicy meal,
Nibbling, partake, let not their nightly lair
Be on the mould; but give them free access
To some adjoining field, where, on the sward,
A drier bed shortens the winter night.
Staked off, the bleating flock their juicy meal,
Nibbling, partake, let not their nightly lair
Be on the mould; but give them free access
To some adjoining field, where, on the sward,
A drier bed shortens the winter night.
Oft, after boisterous days, the rack glides off,
And night serene succeeds, cloudless and calm,
Unrolling all the glories of the sky.
Who would regret the shortened winter day,
Which shrouds, in light, that spectacle sublime!
Who would regret the summer landscape's charm!
O bounteous Night! to every eye that rolls,—
Whether retired in rural solitudes,
Or to thronged cities, or to desert shores
Exiled,—thou spread'st that sight superb,
And through the hopeless heart shoot'st gleams of joy.
Thou shew'st to weary man his glorious home.
As on that happy eve, when peals of peace
(Ah, short-lived peace!) rang through Britannia's realms,
The homeward veteran, as he weary gained
Some mountain brow, beheld, far through the gloom,
His native city all one blaze of light;
Joy filled his eyes with tears, joy nerved his limbs,
That now, at last, to all whom he held dear,
He should return, and never more depart.
And night serene succeeds, cloudless and calm,
Unrolling all the glories of the sky.
Who would regret the shortened winter day,
Which shrouds, in light, that spectacle sublime!
Who would regret the summer landscape's charm!
O bounteous Night! to every eye that rolls,—
Whether retired in rural solitudes,
Or to thronged cities, or to desert shores
Exiled,—thou spread'st that sight superb,
And through the hopeless heart shoot'st gleams of joy.
Thou shew'st to weary man his glorious home.
As on that happy eve, when peals of peace
187
The homeward veteran, as he weary gained
Some mountain brow, beheld, far through the gloom,
His native city all one blaze of light;
Joy filled his eyes with tears, joy nerved his limbs,
That now, at last, to all whom he held dear,
He should return, and never more depart.
Sometimes November nights are thick bedimmed
With hazy vapours, floating o'er the ground,
Or veiling from the view the starry host.
At such a time, on plashy mead or fen,
A faintish light is seen, by southern swains
Called Will-a-Wisp: Sometimes, from rushy bush
To bush it leaps, or, cross a little rill,
Dances from side to side in winding race;
Sometimes, with stationary blaze, it gilds
The heifer's horns; or plays upon the mane
Of farmer's horse returning from the fair,
And lights him on his way; yet often proves
A treacherous guide, misleading from the path
To faithless bogs, and solid-seeming ways.
Sometimes it haunts the church-yard; up and down
The tomb-stone's spiky rail streaming, it shews
Faint glimpses of the rustic sculptor's art,—
Time's scythe and hour-glass, and the grinning skull,
And bones transverse, which, at an hour like this,
To him, who, passing, casts athwart the wall
A fearful glance, speaks with a warning knell.—
Sometimes to the lone traveller it displays
The murderer's gibbet, and his tattered garb,
As lambently along the links it gleams.
With hazy vapours, floating o'er the ground,
Or veiling from the view the starry host.
At such a time, on plashy mead or fen,
A faintish light is seen, by southern swains
Called Will-a-Wisp: Sometimes, from rushy bush
To bush it leaps, or, cross a little rill,
Dances from side to side in winding race;
Sometimes, with stationary blaze, it gilds
The heifer's horns; or plays upon the mane
Of farmer's horse returning from the fair,
188
A treacherous guide, misleading from the path
To faithless bogs, and solid-seeming ways.
Sometimes it haunts the church-yard; up and down
The tomb-stone's spiky rail streaming, it shews
Faint glimpses of the rustic sculptor's art,—
Time's scythe and hour-glass, and the grinning skull,
And bones transverse, which, at an hour like this,
To him, who, passing, casts athwart the wall
A fearful glance, speaks with a warning knell.—
Sometimes to the lone traveller it displays
The murderer's gibbet, and his tattered garb,
As lambently along the links it gleams.
While harmlessly, in northern regions, play
These fires phosphoric, in the tropic climes
The midnight hours are horribly illumed
With sheeted lightning; bright the expanding flame
Reddens the boiling ocean wave, and clear
Displays the topmast cordage, where on high
The ship-boy, trembling, hands the gleaming ropes;
While at the helm, appalled, the steersman scans
The reeling compass, or, despairing, sees
The shivered mast; or, in his eyes, receives
The searing flash, and rolls the extinguished orbs,
And wishes, but in vain, that once again
He could behold the horrors of the storm.
These fires phosphoric, in the tropic climes
The midnight hours are horribly illumed
With sheeted lightning; bright the expanding flame
Reddens the boiling ocean wave, and clear
Displays the topmast cordage, where on high
189
While at the helm, appalled, the steersman scans
The reeling compass, or, despairing, sees
The shivered mast; or, in his eyes, receives
The searing flash, and rolls the extinguished orbs,
And wishes, but in vain, that once again
He could behold the horrors of the storm.
Even such a man I've seen by cottage fire,
Relating to the child, that on his knee
Payed with his visage sorrowful, yet mild,
The wonders of the deep, while busy wheels
And distaffs stop, and every ear and eye
Drinks in the dreadful tale, and many a tear
Is shed by her whose truelove ploughs the main.
Then homebred histories but short appear:—
Some tell how witches, circling mossy cairns,
Far o'er the heath, dance till the moon arise,
Or on the martyr's stone their horrid feast
Set out, in dead men's skulls for dishes ranged.
Perhaps the fairy gambols are the theme,—
How hand in hand, around the broomy knowe,
Beneath the silver moon, they featly trip;
Or, by some roofless mill, their revels hold
Upon the millstone lying on the green;
Or o'er the filmy ice (to their light steps
A floor of adamant) thrid through the dance,
With shadowy heel to heel reflected clear,—
Till, harsh, the tower-perched howlet screech a note
Discordant with aerial minstrelsy,
Or o'er the moon a cloud begins to float,
Then, with the flying beam, before the shade,
In gleamy dance, they shoot o'er hill and dale.
Relating to the child, that on his knee
Payed with his visage sorrowful, yet mild,
The wonders of the deep, while busy wheels
And distaffs stop, and every ear and eye
Drinks in the dreadful tale, and many a tear
Is shed by her whose truelove ploughs the main.
Then homebred histories but short appear:—
Some tell how witches, circling mossy cairns,
Far o'er the heath, dance till the moon arise,
Or on the martyr's stone their horrid feast
Set out, in dead men's skulls for dishes ranged.
190
How hand in hand, around the broomy knowe,
Beneath the silver moon, they featly trip;
Or, by some roofless mill, their revels hold
Upon the millstone lying on the green;
Or o'er the filmy ice (to their light steps
A floor of adamant) thrid through the dance,
With shadowy heel to heel reflected clear,—
Till, harsh, the tower-perched howlet screech a note
Discordant with aerial minstrelsy,
Or o'er the moon a cloud begins to float,
Then, with the flying beam, before the shade,
In gleamy dance, they shoot o'er hill and dale.
Amid November's gloom, a morn serene
Will sometimes intervene, o'er cottage roof,
And grassy blade, spreading the hoarfrost bright,
That crackles crisp when marked by early foot;
But soon, beneath the sun-beam, melts away
The beauteous crustwork, leaving the blanched sward
Flung, as with dew-drops on a summer's morn.
Alas, the impearled sward no summer tint
Displays; withered it lies, or faintly tinged
With sickly verdure, save by fountain brink,
Or margin of some slowly-flowing rill:
There, through the Winter's cold and Summer's heat,
A vivid verdure winds, in contrast marked
With Nature's faded charms, like fresh festoons
Of summer-flowers on waning Beauty's brow.
In spots like these, the last of Autumn's flowers
Droop, lingering; there the earliest snow-drop peeps.
Hence Irrigation's power at first was learnt,
A custom ancient, yet but rarely used
In cold and watery climes; though even there
No mode of melioration has been found
Of more effect, or with more ease obtained.
Will sometimes intervene, o'er cottage roof,
And grassy blade, spreading the hoarfrost bright,
That crackles crisp when marked by early foot;
But soon, beneath the sun-beam, melts away
The beauteous crustwork, leaving the blanched sward
191
Alas, the impearled sward no summer tint
Displays; withered it lies, or faintly tinged
With sickly verdure, save by fountain brink,
Or margin of some slowly-flowing rill:
There, through the Winter's cold and Summer's heat,
A vivid verdure winds, in contrast marked
With Nature's faded charms, like fresh festoons
Of summer-flowers on waning Beauty's brow.
In spots like these, the last of Autumn's flowers
Droop, lingering; there the earliest snow-drop peeps.
Hence Irrigation's power at first was learnt,
A custom ancient, yet but rarely used
In cold and watery climes; though even there
No mode of melioration has been found
Of more effect, or with more ease obtained.
Through various regions of Britannia's isle,
In every field are found abundant means
Of irrigation: every brawling brook,
Or tinkling runnel, offers copious draughts
Of watery nutriment, the food of plants.
But only then 'tis useful, when the land
Is dry by nature, art, or seasons fair;
And chiefly when in herbage for the scythe,
Or browsing lip.
In every field are found abundant means
Of irrigation: every brawling brook,
192
Of watery nutriment, the food of plants.
But only then 'tis useful, when the land
Is dry by nature, art, or seasons fair;
And chiefly when in herbage for the scythe,
Or browsing lip.
A free and porous soil
Upon a gravelly bed, at all times drinks,
Yet ne'er is quenched.—Who owns a soil like this,
If through his fields a little mountain-stream,
Not sunk in channel deep, but murmuring down
'Tween gently-sloping banks, a mine of wealth
Possesses in that stream: A dam, half stone
Half turf, athwart he rears, then from each side,
Along his fields he slanting conduits draws,
Which, with a flow scarce visible, supply
The smaller branches, till, o'er all his leas,
And meadows green, he, in a summer day,
Spreads the whole stream, leaving the channel bare,—
Save at some little pools, where, lurking, lie
The fearful trouts, that from the schoolboy's hand
Seek refuge vain, 'neath stones or shelving rock.
Upon a gravelly bed, at all times drinks,
Yet ne'er is quenched.—Who owns a soil like this,
If through his fields a little mountain-stream,
Not sunk in channel deep, but murmuring down
'Tween gently-sloping banks, a mine of wealth
Possesses in that stream: A dam, half stone
Half turf, athwart he rears, then from each side,
Along his fields he slanting conduits draws,
Which, with a flow scarce visible, supply
The smaller branches, till, o'er all his leas,
And meadows green, he, in a summer day,
Spreads the whole stream, leaving the channel bare,—
193
The fearful trouts, that from the schoolboy's hand
Seek refuge vain, 'neath stones or shelving rock.
Nor is it only in the sultry months
He leads the freshening fertilizing lymph.
Even in this humid month he overflows
The withering grass, but soon again withdraws
The streams prolific: deep the verdure sprouts
In close luxuriance; daisies bud anew,
And to the sloping wintry beam half ope
Their crimson-tinted flow'rets, closing soon;
For soon they, shrinking, feel 'tis not the breath
Of early Spring, that woos them to unfold.
He leads the freshening fertilizing lymph.
Even in this humid month he overflows
The withering grass, but soon again withdraws
The streams prolific: deep the verdure sprouts
In close luxuriance; daisies bud anew,
And to the sloping wintry beam half ope
Their crimson-tinted flow'rets, closing soon;
For soon they, shrinking, feel 'tis not the breath
Of early Spring, that woos them to unfold.
In grounds, by art laid dry, the aqueous bane
That marred the wholesome herbs, is turned to use;
And drains, while drawing noxious moisture off,
Serve also to diffuse a due supply.
That marred the wholesome herbs, is turned to use;
And drains, while drawing noxious moisture off,
Serve also to diffuse a due supply.
194
Some soils of clay, obdurately compact,
Foil every effort of the draining art.
Deluged in weeping seasons, they retain
The falling floods; each furrow is a pool.
There irrigation serves no useful end,
Unless in summer drouths, and, at such times,
No land more needs the irrigating aid.
For clay, though ranked among the humid soils,
Is in itself the driest of them all:
The cloud-descended water it retains,
But yet excludes, and on the surface bears;
Which soon, as by the fervid summer beam
Exhaled, leaves the unmoistened soil to cling
Around each root, and yawn with many a cleft.
Foil every effort of the draining art.
Deluged in weeping seasons, they retain
The falling floods; each furrow is a pool.
There irrigation serves no useful end,
Unless in summer drouths, and, at such times,
No land more needs the irrigating aid.
For clay, though ranked among the humid soils,
Is in itself the driest of them all:
The cloud-descended water it retains,
But yet excludes, and on the surface bears;
Which soon, as by the fervid summer beam
Exhaled, leaves the unmoistened soil to cling
Around each root, and yawn with many a cleft.
Some level fields, through all the winter months,
Are covered warmly with a watery sheet:
Here a rich sward upshoots of lively green,
Till stopt by contact with its icy roof;
And when at last, upon a sunny morn,
While vernal breezes curl the smooth expanse,
The liquid veil withdraws,—a reeking mist
Mantles the plain, till Zephyr gently sweep
The rolling wreaths away, unfolding wide
A verdant carpet broidered o'er with flowers.
Are covered warmly with a watery sheet:
Here a rich sward upshoots of lively green,
Till stopt by contact with its icy roof;
And when at last, upon a sunny morn,
195
The liquid veil withdraws,—a reeking mist
Mantles the plain, till Zephyr gently sweep
The rolling wreaths away, unfolding wide
A verdant carpet broidered o'er with flowers.
197
DECEMBER.
“The sweeping blast, the sky o'er-cast,”
The joyless Winter day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May.
Burns.
The joyless Winter day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May.
Burns.
198
ARGUMENT.
Wind and sleet—A cottage in ruins—Whirlwinds— Secure thatch of stacks and house—Snow—Recommendation to strew food for birds—Their use to the farmer in destroying insects—The redbreast—The sun appearing faintly through clouds—The labourer —His home employments during the day—His cheerful fireside—A contrast—Country deserted by those who possessed the power of mitigating the hardships of the peasant's lot—Resort to towns— —Dissipation—A route—The theatre—A concert— Superior enjoyment of those who observe the good old hospitality of Christmas in the country—Hoggmanay —Various customs—A midnight storm— Dawn—Conclusion.
199
Loud raves the blast, and, snell, the sleety showers
Drive over hill and dale with hurrying sweep.
The leafless boughs all to one point are bent,
And the lithe beech-tops horizontal stream,
Like shivered pennon from some dipping mast.
Dismal the wind howls through yon thatchless roof,
The cottage skeleton, from whence exiled,
The inmates pine in some dark city lane,
Thinking of that dear desolated home,
Where many a summer sun they saw go down;
Where many a winter night, around the fire,
They heard the storm rave o'er the lowly roof.
Forlorn it stands. Ah! who is he that views
The ruin drear, still wandering round and round,
With doubting aspect, yet with watery eye!
Fain would he disbelieve it is the place
Where he, in innocence and humble peace,
His infancy and youth had happy spent,
Till, lured away, he left his parents sad,
And sought the sea, anticipating oft
His glad return to aid their downward years:
And now returned, with expectation full,
To greet each kinsman's gladdened face, and share
His hard-worn treasure with the friends he loved,
And visit all his boyish haunts, he finds, instead,
All desolate: in speechless gaze, awhile
He stands, then turns in agony and weeps,
In bitterness of soul,—as when a bird,
A-roaming gone for food to feed her young,
Returning to the well-known bush, beholds
A mossy tuft, where once had hung her nest,—
Drooping, she perches on her wonted spray,
Then, in a plaintive strain, repeated oft,
Monotonous, laments her piteous lot.
Drive over hill and dale with hurrying sweep.
The leafless boughs all to one point are bent,
And the lithe beech-tops horizontal stream,
Like shivered pennon from some dipping mast.
Dismal the wind howls through yon thatchless roof,
The cottage skeleton, from whence exiled,
The inmates pine in some dark city lane,
Thinking of that dear desolated home,
Where many a summer sun they saw go down;
Where many a winter night, around the fire,
200
Forlorn it stands. Ah! who is he that views
The ruin drear, still wandering round and round,
With doubting aspect, yet with watery eye!
Fain would he disbelieve it is the place
Where he, in innocence and humble peace,
His infancy and youth had happy spent,
Till, lured away, he left his parents sad,
And sought the sea, anticipating oft
His glad return to aid their downward years:
And now returned, with expectation full,
To greet each kinsman's gladdened face, and share
His hard-worn treasure with the friends he loved,
And visit all his boyish haunts, he finds, instead,
All desolate: in speechless gaze, awhile
He stands, then turns in agony and weeps,
In bitterness of soul,—as when a bird,
A-roaming gone for food to feed her young,
Returning to the well-known bush, beholds
A mossy tuft, where once had hung her nest,—
201
Then, in a plaintive strain, repeated oft,
Monotonous, laments her piteous lot.
On brier and thorn, some straggling hips and haws
Still linger, while, behind the leafless hedge
Cowring, the sheep stand fixed in rueful gaze.
Oft now, a whirlwind, eddying down the vale,
Uncovers stacks, or on the cottage roof
Seizing amain, sweeps many a wisp aloft,
High vanishing amid the hurrying clouds.
At such a time, oft to your stackyard look,
And smooth the slightest ruffling of the thatch,
Binding it firmly down with added coils.
To guard your roof against the furrowing gust,
The harrows, till a calmer hour arrive,
Fencing the weaker parts, will save the whole.
Still linger, while, behind the leafless hedge
Cowring, the sheep stand fixed in rueful gaze.
Oft now, a whirlwind, eddying down the vale,
Uncovers stacks, or on the cottage roof
Seizing amain, sweeps many a wisp aloft,
High vanishing amid the hurrying clouds.
At such a time, oft to your stackyard look,
And smooth the slightest ruffling of the thatch,
Binding it firmly down with added coils.
To guard your roof against the furrowing gust,
The harrows, till a calmer hour arrive,
Fencing the weaker parts, will save the whole.
When broadened hovering flakes begin to wheel,
And whiten hill and vale, the fowler lays
His treacherous lure, and watches till he see
The scattered snow raised by some fluttering wing,
Then forward darts to seize his captive prey.
Strew rather thou the food without the snare!
A little sprinkling saves, from Famine's power,
Full many a beauteous songster, whose sweet pipe,
In early spring, repays the trifling boon.
But songs are not the sole return they make:
Foes of the insect race through every change,—
The embryotic egg, in bark or leaf
Deposited; the maggot, chrysalis,
And winged bane, they ceaselessly destroy.
And whiten hill and vale, the fowler lays
202
The scattered snow raised by some fluttering wing,
Then forward darts to seize his captive prey.
Strew rather thou the food without the snare!
A little sprinkling saves, from Famine's power,
Full many a beauteous songster, whose sweet pipe,
In early spring, repays the trifling boon.
But songs are not the sole return they make:
Foes of the insect race through every change,—
The embryotic egg, in bark or leaf
Deposited; the maggot, chrysalis,
And winged bane, they ceaselessly destroy.
Of all the feathered tribes, that flock around
The house or barn for shelter and for food,
The redbreast chiefly,—sweetest trustful bird,—
Demands protection from the coming storm.
Your open window then with crumbs bestrew,
Inviting entrance;—soon he'll venture in
And hop around, nor fear at last to perch
Upon the distaff of the humming wheel,
Cheering with summer songs the winter day.
The house or barn for shelter and for food,
The redbreast chiefly,—sweetest trustful bird,—
Demands protection from the coming storm.
Your open window then with crumbs bestrew,
Inviting entrance;—soon he'll venture in
And hop around, nor fear at last to perch
203
Cheering with summer songs the winter day.
At times the fall abates, and low, through clouds,
The struggling sun his dim and shapeless disk
Faintly displays, wan as a watery moon,
And almost tempts the labourer to his task.
But when he sees the transient beam withdrawn,
He shuts again his door, and turns his hand
To home employment,—mending now a hive,
With bark of brier darned pliant through the seams;
Or, looking forward through the wintry gloom
To summer days, and meadows newly mown,
Repairs his toothless rake; or feeds his bees;
Or drives a nail into his studded shoon;
Or twists a wisp, and winds the spiral steps
Around the henroost ladder; deeply fixed,
Meanwhile, his children quit their play, and stand
With look enquiring, and enquiring tongue,
Admiring much his skill. Thus glides the day;
Thus glide the evening hours, when laid to rest
His imps are stilled, and with its deep-toned hum
The wool-wheel joins the excluded tempest's howl.
Perhaps some neighbour braves the blast, and cheers
The fire-side ring; then blaze the added peats,
Or moss-dug faggot, brightening roof and wall,
And rows of glancing plates that grace the shelves.
The jest meanwhile, or story of old times,
Goes cheery round; or, from some well-soiled page,
Are read the deeds of heroes, by the light
Mayhap of brands, whereon, when greenwood trees
Were all their canopy, their armour hung.
The struggling sun his dim and shapeless disk
Faintly displays, wan as a watery moon,
And almost tempts the labourer to his task.
But when he sees the transient beam withdrawn,
He shuts again his door, and turns his hand
To home employment,—mending now a hive,
With bark of brier darned pliant through the seams;
Or, looking forward through the wintry gloom
To summer days, and meadows newly mown,
Repairs his toothless rake; or feeds his bees;
Or drives a nail into his studded shoon;
Or twists a wisp, and winds the spiral steps
Around the henroost ladder; deeply fixed,
Meanwhile, his children quit their play, and stand
With look enquiring, and enquiring tongue,
Admiring much his skill. Thus glides the day;
204
His imps are stilled, and with its deep-toned hum
The wool-wheel joins the excluded tempest's howl.
Perhaps some neighbour braves the blast, and cheers
The fire-side ring; then blaze the added peats,
Or moss-dug faggot, brightening roof and wall,
And rows of glancing plates that grace the shelves.
The jest meanwhile, or story of old times,
Goes cheery round; or, from some well-soiled page,
Are read the deeds of heroes, by the light
Mayhap of brands, whereon, when greenwood trees
Were all their canopy, their armour hung.
Alas! in many a cottage no bright blaze
Cheers the low roof; but cowring, shivering, round
The semblance of a fire, a single peat,
Or bunch of gathered sticks, that scarce return
A feeble glimmer to the fanning breath,
The inmates, poor, pine the long eve away.
Perhaps around the couch of pain they wait,
And minister in darkness to the sick;
Or sad, upon a deathbed watching, lean,
And only know the parting moment past
By the cold lip, the cold and stiffening hand.
Cheers the low roof; but cowring, shivering, round
The semblance of a fire, a single peat,
Or bunch of gathered sticks, that scarce return
A feeble glimmer to the fanning breath,
The inmates, poor, pine the long eve away.
Perhaps around the couch of pain they wait,
205
Or sad, upon a deathbed watching, lean,
And only know the parting moment past
By the cold lip, the cold and stiffening hand.
Ah me! the rural vale deserted lies,
By those who hold the power to mitigate
The hardships of the peasant's humble lot.
To cities fled, they listless haunt the rounds
Of dissipation, falsely pleasure called.
The crowded route blazes with dazzling glare
Of multitudinous lights, a senseless shew,
Of insipidity the very shrine.
From groupe to groupe behold the trifler range;
Now listening to the nothings of the fair;
Now telling o'er and o'er, to each new audience,
Some new intelligence which all have heard,
Or meagre jest, picked from the very crumbs
And scraps he gathered at some witling's board:
Or mark his counterpart, the languid maid,
Affecting apathy beyond that share
Which Nature, with no stinted hand, bestowed.
Another, sensitive all o'er, would shrink,
Or seem to shrink, from view, yet is attired,—
Like flower in hoar-frost veiled, whose every leaf,
And every tiny fold, and bosom fair,
Is obvious to the eye, though hid its hue.
By those who hold the power to mitigate
The hardships of the peasant's humble lot.
To cities fled, they listless haunt the rounds
Of dissipation, falsely pleasure called.
The crowded route blazes with dazzling glare
Of multitudinous lights, a senseless shew,
Of insipidity the very shrine.
From groupe to groupe behold the trifler range;
Now listening to the nothings of the fair;
Now telling o'er and o'er, to each new audience,
Some new intelligence which all have heard,
Or meagre jest, picked from the very crumbs
And scraps he gathered at some witling's board:
206
Affecting apathy beyond that share
Which Nature, with no stinted hand, bestowed.
Another, sensitive all o'er, would shrink,
Or seem to shrink, from view, yet is attired,—
Like flower in hoar-frost veiled, whose every leaf,
And every tiny fold, and bosom fair,
Is obvious to the eye, though hid its hue.
See some o'erlook the hushed divan, who stake
A village on the turning of a card.
A village on the turning of a card.
Or does the crowded theatre precede
These midnight orgies? there, too, Folly rules,
And crowns her votaries with ephemeral bays,—
While far apart, the Tragic Muse, inspired
By Shakespeare's spirit, speaking from a cloud
Of thunder, meditates her lofty theme,
And awes, or melts, by turns, a listening world.
These midnight orgies? there, too, Folly rules,
And crowns her votaries with ephemeral bays,—
While far apart, the Tragic Muse, inspired
By Shakespeare's spirit, speaking from a cloud
Of thunder, meditates her lofty theme,
And awes, or melts, by turns, a listening world.
207
Perhaps the feast of music draws the crowd,
Who, glutted even to surfeit, still with praise,
With yawning admiration, daub the man,
That, with bold fingers, gloriously ascends
Three straw-breadths higher, on the tortured string,
Than his compeers, and thence extracts
A squeak, a little squeak, that much delights,—
Because less grating than most other squeaks.
Who, glutted even to surfeit, still with praise,
With yawning admiration, daub the man,
That, with bold fingers, gloriously ascends
Three straw-breadths higher, on the tortured string,
Than his compeers, and thence extracts
A squeak, a little squeak, that much delights,—
Because less grating than most other squeaks.
Such are the scenes which rob the wintry months
Of those whom duty, interest, pleasure, call
A country life to lead. How far surpass
The pleasures which the few, who still observe
The good old customs of the Christmas tide;
Who see their halls with happy faces thronged,
The rich, the poor, the old and young, all joined
In social harmony,—how far surpass
Their pleasures, those extracted from the round
Of city life, from various sameness, dull
Laborious merriment, and all the salves,
The antidotes against the bane of Time!
Of those whom duty, interest, pleasure, call
A country life to lead. How far surpass
The pleasures which the few, who still observe
The good old customs of the Christmas tide;
Who see their halls with happy faces thronged,
The rich, the poor, the old and young, all joined
In social harmony,—how far surpass
Their pleasures, those extracted from the round
Of city life, from various sameness, dull
208
The antidotes against the bane of Time!
Of all the festive nights which customs old,
And waning fast, have made the poor man's own,
The merriest of them all is Hoggmanay.
Then from each cottage window, 'mid the gloom,
A brighter ray shoots through the fallen flakes,—
And glimmering lanterns gleam, like Will-a-Wisp
Athwart the fields, or, mounting over stiles,
Evanish suddenly: no dread is now
Of walking wraith, or witch, or cantrip fell;
For Superstition's self this night assumes
A smiling aspect, and a fearless mien,
And tardy Prudence slips the leash from Joy.
To meeting lovers now no hill is steep,
No river fordless, and no forest dark;
And when they meet, unheeded sweeps the blast,
Unfelt the snow, as erst from summer thorn,
Around them fell a shower of fading flowers,
Shook by the sighing of the evening breeze.
And waning fast, have made the poor man's own,
The merriest of them all is Hoggmanay.
Then from each cottage window, 'mid the gloom,
A brighter ray shoots through the fallen flakes,—
And glimmering lanterns gleam, like Will-a-Wisp
Athwart the fields, or, mounting over stiles,
Evanish suddenly: no dread is now
Of walking wraith, or witch, or cantrip fell;
For Superstition's self this night assumes
A smiling aspect, and a fearless mien,
And tardy Prudence slips the leash from Joy.
To meeting lovers now no hill is steep,
No river fordless, and no forest dark;
And when they meet, unheeded sweeps the blast,
Unfelt the snow, as erst from summer thorn,
209
Shook by the sighing of the evening breeze.
With smutted visages, from house to house,
In country and in town, the guisarts range,
And sing their madrigals, though coarse and rude,
With willing glee that penetrates the heart.
O! it delights my heart, that unstained joy
Of thoughtless boyhood. Spurn you from my door!—
No, no, rush freely in, and share my fire,
And sing through all your roll of jovial lilts.
In country and in town, the guisarts range,
And sing their madrigals, though coarse and rude,
With willing glee that penetrates the heart.
O! it delights my heart, that unstained joy
Of thoughtless boyhood. Spurn you from my door!—
No, no, rush freely in, and share my fire,
And sing through all your roll of jovial lilts.
But older folks their chairs and stools draw in
Around the fire, and form a circle blythe.
With riddles quaint, and tricks, and ancient tales,
They pass the time, while oft the reaming horn,
From hand to hand passed round, arrests midway
The story-teller in his long-spun tale,—
Which, not thus baulked, he soon again resumes,
And interweaves full many an episode.
Around the fire, and form a circle blythe.
With riddles quaint, and tricks, and ancient tales,
They pass the time, while oft the reaming horn,
From hand to hand passed round, arrests midway
The story-teller in his long-spun tale,—
Which, not thus baulked, he soon again resumes,
And interweaves full many an episode.
210
The temperate banquet done, their several homes
Timely they seek, resolved, ere morning dawn,
With smoking pints, to greet friends, lovers, kin.
Timely they seek, resolved, ere morning dawn,
With smoking pints, to greet friends, lovers, kin.
Some blyther bevies, till the midnight hour,
Around the cheerful board their mirth protract,
To drink a welcome to the good new year;
Then crossing arms, with hands enlinked all round,
All voices join in some old song, and full
The tide of friendly harmony o'erflows!
Around the cheerful board their mirth protract,
To drink a welcome to the good new year;
Then crossing arms, with hands enlinked all round,
All voices join in some old song, and full
The tide of friendly harmony o'erflows!
December, all thy aspects have their charm;
The sky o'ercast, the sweeping rack, the calm
And cloudless day, when reeling midges warp
In sunny nook; yea, even the raving storm.
The sky o'ercast, the sweeping rack, the calm
And cloudless day, when reeling midges warp
In sunny nook; yea, even the raving storm.
I love the music of the midnight storm,
When wild, careering, drive the winds and rains,
And loud and louder, through the sounding grove,
The Spirit of the Tempest seems to howl,
And loud and louder beats the furious blast,
As if some giant hand, with doubling strokes,
Struck the strong wall, and shook it to its base.
Awful the mustering pause, when all is hushed
Save the fierce river's roar! How cheering now
And heartening, sounds the crow of Morning's bird!
How deep the darkness! save when sudden gleams
Dazzle the eye, that ventures to explore
The awful secrets of the solemn hour.
When wild, careering, drive the winds and rains,
And loud and louder, through the sounding grove,
The Spirit of the Tempest seems to howl,
211
As if some giant hand, with doubling strokes,
Struck the strong wall, and shook it to its base.
Awful the mustering pause, when all is hushed
Save the fierce river's roar! How cheering now
And heartening, sounds the crow of Morning's bird!
How deep the darkness! save when sudden gleams
Dazzle the eye, that ventures to explore
The awful secrets of the solemn hour.
Gradual the storm abates, and welcome peeps
The long-expected dawn, gloomy at first,
But tinging by degrees, with copper hue,
The slowly flying clouds. Most pleasant hour
Of daybreak! at all seasons fraught with gladness,
Whether the sun in summer splendour rise,
Hailed by a thousand choristers on wing
Suspended high, or perched on dewy bough;
Or whether, through the wintry lowring sky,
He shoots his watery beam far from the south,—
Thou makest the heart of all that lives expand,
Man, bird, and beast, with joy; but chiefly man,
As looking with complacent eye around,
On this grand frame of things slowly illumed,
He worships, not in words, but heavenward thoughts,
Submiss and lowly, that vast power which launched,
Impels this mighty mass, and guides it round,—
True to its annual and diurnal course;—
Stupendous miracle!—this mighty mass
Hurled loose, through realms immense of trackless space,
With speed, compared to which the viewless ball,
Projected from the cannon's mouth, but creeps
At a snail's pace, yet without shock or pause,
Or deviation infinitely small,
Rolling along, with motion unperceived,
As if it moveless lay on Ether's tide.
The long-expected dawn, gloomy at first,
But tinging by degrees, with copper hue,
The slowly flying clouds. Most pleasant hour
Of daybreak! at all seasons fraught with gladness,
Whether the sun in summer splendour rise,
Hailed by a thousand choristers on wing
Suspended high, or perched on dewy bough;
Or whether, through the wintry lowring sky,
He shoots his watery beam far from the south,—
212
Man, bird, and beast, with joy; but chiefly man,
As looking with complacent eye around,
On this grand frame of things slowly illumed,
He worships, not in words, but heavenward thoughts,
Submiss and lowly, that vast power which launched,
Impels this mighty mass, and guides it round,—
True to its annual and diurnal course;—
Stupendous miracle!—this mighty mass
Hurled loose, through realms immense of trackless space,
With speed, compared to which the viewless ball,
Projected from the cannon's mouth, but creeps
At a snail's pace, yet without shock or pause,
Or deviation infinitely small,
Rolling along, with motion unperceived,
As if it moveless lay on Ether's tide.
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