 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
And the old thorns are gone—the thorns I loved,
For that in childhood I could reach and pluck
Their first sweet blossoms. They were low, like me;
Young, lowly bushes—I a little child;
And we grew up together. They are gone:
And the great elder by the mossy pales—
How sweet the blackbird sang in that old tree!
Sweeter, methinks, than now, from statelier shades—
They've felled that too, the goodly, harmless thing!
That with its fragrant clusters overhung
Our garden hedge, and furnished its rich store
Of juicy berries for the Christmas wine,
Spicy and hot, and its round hollow stems,
The pith extracted, for quaint arrow-heads,
Such as my father in our archery games
Taught me to fashion. That they've ta'en away,
And so some relic daily disappears,
Something I've loved and prized; and now the last—
Almost the last—the poor old milestone falls,
And in its place this smooth, white, perked-up thing,
With its great staring figures.
For that in childhood I could reach and pluck
Their first sweet blossoms. They were low, like me;
Young, lowly bushes—I a little child;
And we grew up together. They are gone:
And the great elder by the mossy pales—
How sweet the blackbird sang in that old tree!
63
They've felled that too, the goodly, harmless thing!
That with its fragrant clusters overhung
Our garden hedge, and furnished its rich store
Of juicy berries for the Christmas wine,
Spicy and hot, and its round hollow stems,
The pith extracted, for quaint arrow-heads,
Such as my father in our archery games
Taught me to fashion. That they've ta'en away,
And so some relic daily disappears,
Something I've loved and prized; and now the last—
Almost the last—the poor old milestone falls,
And in its place this smooth, white, perked-up thing,
With its great staring figures.
Well, well, well!
All's doubtless as it should be. Were my will
The rule of action, strange results, I doubt,
Would shock the rational community.
No farmer round should clip one straggling hedge,
No road-surveyor change one rugged stone,
Howe'er illegible its lettered face,
Nor pare, nor trim, nor chop one craggy bank,
Nor lop one wayside tree, although its boughs
Arched all the royal road. I'd have the road
One bowery arch—what matter if so low
No mail might pass beneath? For aught I care
The post might come on foot, or not at all,
At least with tidings of the troublous world.
In short—in short, it's quite as well, perhaps,
I can but rail—not rule. Splenetic words
Will not tack on again dissevered boughs,
Nor set up the old stone; so let me breathe
The fulness of a vexed spirit out
In impotent murmurs.
All's doubtless as it should be. Were my will
The rule of action, strange results, I doubt,
Would shock the rational community.
No farmer round should clip one straggling hedge,
No road-surveyor change one rugged stone,
Howe'er illegible its lettered face,
Nor pare, nor trim, nor chop one craggy bank,
Nor lop one wayside tree, although its boughs
Arched all the royal road. I'd have the road
One bowery arch—what matter if so low
No mail might pass beneath? For aught I care
The post might come on foot, or not at all,
At least with tidings of the troublous world.
In short—in short, it's quite as well, perhaps,
I can but rail—not rule. Splenetic words
Will not tack on again dissevered boughs,
Nor set up the old stone; so let me breathe
The fulness of a vexed spirit out
In impotent murmurs.
64
Gentles, could you guess
What thoughts, what feelings, what remembrances
Are in my mind associated with sight
Of that cold senseless stone, that shapeless thing
Which there lies postrate, ye would smile perhaps,
But not methinks in scornful wonderment
At the strange utterings of my wayward mood.
Here, to this very spot, the guardian hand
Still clasping mine, with tottering steps I came,
A good half mile from home—my first long walk—
The first remembered. Here, the goal attained,
They set me up on the old stone to rest,
And called me woman!—Baby now no more,
Who walked so stoutly; filled my lap with flowers,
And pulled within my reach the woodbine down,
That I might pluck, with mine own eager hand,
A wreath for Dido's neck. She sat beside,
The grave old creature, with her large brown eyes
Intently, as in delegated watch,
Fixed on her master's child. Soon came the days,
When his companion—his, his only one,
My father's—I became. Proud, happy child!
Untiring now in many a lengthened walk,
Yet resting oft, his arm encircling me,
On the old milestone in our homeward way.
What thoughts, what feelings, what remembrances
Are in my mind associated with sight
Of that cold senseless stone, that shapeless thing
Which there lies postrate, ye would smile perhaps,
But not methinks in scornful wonderment
At the strange utterings of my wayward mood.
Here, to this very spot, the guardian hand
Still clasping mine, with tottering steps I came,
A good half mile from home—my first long walk—
The first remembered. Here, the goal attained,
They set me up on the old stone to rest,
And called me woman!—Baby now no more,
Who walked so stoutly; filled my lap with flowers,
And pulled within my reach the woodbine down,
That I might pluck, with mine own eager hand,
A wreath for Dido's neck. She sat beside,
The grave old creature, with her large brown eyes
Intently, as in delegated watch,
Fixed on her master's child. Soon came the days,
When his companion—his, his only one,
My father's—I became. Proud, happy child!
Untiring now in many a lengthened walk,
Yet resting oft, his arm encircling me,
On the old milestone in our homeward way.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |