Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

This is the stateman's country: every man
Hath his own steading, his own field, his garth,
And share of common and of moss, wherefrom
He cuts his winter's fuel, building up
The russet stack above his gable thatch.
Look through that straggling unpruned hedge, you'll see
One of those sinewy Saxons, such an one,
From sire to son, perhaps, hath till'd that mould,
For these five hundred years; that rough-hewn block
Of timber plays the part of harrow here.

And now we reach the turn I told you of,
Close to our journey's end. The violets
Are just as thick as ever, and beneath
The rooty sand-bank those white embers show
A gipsy's bivouac has but late been here.
And there is this old village, with its wide
Irregular path, its rattling streamlet bridged

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Before each cottage with loose planks or stones,
And all the geese and ducks that have no fear
Of strangers, the wide smith's shop, and the church
Whose grey stone roof is within reach of hand.
A fit place for an artist to be reared;
Not a great Master whose vast unshared toils,
Add to the riches of the world, rebuild
God's house, and clothe with Prophets walls and roof,
Defending cities as a pastime—such
We have not! but the homelier heartier hand
That gives us English landscapes year by year.
There is his small ancestral home, so gay,
With rosery and green wicket. We last met
In London: I've heard since he had returned
Homeward less sound in health than when he reached
That athlete's theatre, well termed the grave
Of little reputations. Fresh again
Let's hope to find him.

Thus conversing stept
Two travellers downward. The descending road
Rough with loose pebbles left by floods of late:
Straight through the wicket passed they, and in front
The pent-roofed door stood knocking: all was still:
Through the low parlour window books were seen
Upon the little settle, and some pots
With flowers, a birdcage hung too without song
Close to the window; round them noontide glowed
So gladsomely, the leaves were every one

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Glistening and quivering, and the hosts of gnats
Spun in the shadows; but within seemed dark
And dead. A quick light foot is heard, and there,
Before them stood a maiden in the sun
That fell upon her chestnut hair like fire.

How winsome fair she was 'tis hard to tell!
For she was strong and straight, like a young elm,
And without fear, although she halted there
Answering with coy eyes scarce turned to us,
Yet not embarrassed, while she told the tale
Of the sick man. Then felt the strangers free
To look upon her: her tall neck was tinged
With brown and bore her small head easily
Like that of a giraffe; her saffron jupe,
Girt loosely round her long waist, fell in folds
From her high bosom,—but, as hath been said,
How winsome fair she was 'twas hard to tell—
Untaught and strong, and conscious of no charm;
I might describe her from the head succinct,
Even to the high-arched instep of her foot,
And all in vain: the soul sincere, the full
Yet homely harmony she bore with her,
Movèd me like the first sight of the sea,
And made me think of old queens, Guenevere,
Or maid Rowena with her ‘waes-hail,’ or
Aslauga whom the Sea-king chanced upon,

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Keeping her sheep beside Norse waves, the while
She combed her hair out mirror'd in the stream.

The artist was not there to welcome them,
That much was plain; and, more, the life of home
Was not for him; Elspeth, the crazed beldame
O' the village, shouted and sang by sometimes,
And that he could not bear. This and much else,
At the hedge ale-house, while the friends regaled
By the wide chimney where the brown turf burned,
And daylight glinted down, they heard. But still
As of the damsel thought they most, one cried—
‘I could have ta'en her head between my hands
And kissed her,—she's so wise and frank and kind,
I'm sure she never would have thought it strange.’