University of Virginia Library

“My Missis said 'twas just the thing for Miss,
When Amos brought it in an hour agone
From the dead ewe. The poor dumb brute had three,
This only living; well enough for strength,
Considering: and Miss will mud it up,
I know, as clever as a little queen,
If I may leave it for her.”

If!—that if
Checked in a moment my ecstatic fit,
And a quick glance imploringly I turned
To the parental faces. Smiles were there,
But not consenting ones—and heads were shaken,
And sage remonstrance was preparing plain,
And lips were opened; but I stopt them quick
With smothering kisses, and—the lamb was mine.
And thanks to Lydia, maiden most expert
In things pertaining to the dairy's charge,
And country matters—ever mine ally,
Ready and faithful—the small creature throve
As though the mother's milk and her strong love—
Nature's unerring course—had nurtured it;
And from a tender fondling, soon became
My mate and playfellow. Such friends we were—
Willy and I! Inseparable friends,
In door and out—up-stairs and down—where'er
My step was heard, the little pattering hoofs
Close following, or before me, sounded too.
Only at lesson time awhile disjoined
The fond companionship. Good reason why—
The pupil never much renowned at best
For patient application; little chance
Was there of any, when that gamesome thing
Made scoff of learning, and its teachers grave;
Upsetting inkstands—nibbling copy-books—
And still provoking to irreverent mirth
With some new merry mischief.

Time went on—
More wondrous had he stopt—and winsome Willy,
The pet lamb still, drew near to ram's estate—
Then 'gan affairs to alter. Budding horns,
Fondled at first, grew formidable things,
And pretty freedoms to audacious onslaughts.
Old Di was sent off howling—from the lines
Linen hooked down and tattered—maids laid sprawling—
And visitors attacked, and butchers' boys,
And bakers, with their trays and baskets, butted,
And forced to fly and hallo for th eir lives.
Our mutual love still perfect, I alone
'Scaped molestation, threatening life or limb;
Only for summer wear more cool and airy
The muslin frocks were made, by sundry slits
From top to bottom, and large eyelet holes;
But that was all in sport—no harm intended—
And I the last to take offence at things
Concerning only those who had to mend
Or to replace my wardrobe. But all hearts
Were not so placable, and day by day
Dark looks and angry murmurs darker grew,
And waxed more wrathful.

“'Twas not to be borne:
The beast was dangerous: some serious mischief
Would come of it at last; it must be seen to.”
O Willy! Willy! how I quaked for fear
At those vague threatenings, with ingenious art
Concealing or excusing as I could
Thine oft delinquencies. But all in vain;
The fatal day, long dreaded, came at last.
It was the time of blossoms, and my father,
Who in “trim gardens” much delight did take,
Was scanning with a gardener's prideful eye
His neat espaliers; every well-trained branch
Thick set with bloom—deep blushing like the morn,
Or fainter tinged, or snow-white, of each sort
Indicative, and its abundant fruit. Fair show!
Rich promise! Many a season cold, unkind,
Had nipped the gardener's hope since such was seen—
“If frost returns not, and no cruel blight
Comes near us”—with exultant hope broke forth
My father's meditation—when, alas!
Destruction was at hand, and in mid speech
He stopt astounded. Frost nor blight most dire
So direful as the sight of visible mischief
Personified in Willy's form, at work
Ten paces off, where thick as snowflakes fell
A shower of milk-white blossoms. Glorious sport!
Another butting charge, and down they come,
Whitening the walk and border.

“Help! help! help!
Ho, Ephraim! Ephraim!” At the call appear
More than the summoned—rushes out amain
The gaping household, mistress, maids, and man,
And I, half guilty, much confounded cause
Remote, of all the evil, helpless then
To stay its progress.

“Here he is—here! here!
Stop him—he's off again!”

“Where? where?” “There, there!”
Down comes the flowery rain—that shake will do
For the old golden rennet—fair pearmain!
Thy turn comes next—and next—

“Destruction! death!
There goes the gansels bergamy—will no one
Stop the cursed brute?”

How beautiful he looked!—
Even in my shame and terror so I thought—
When at safe distance he stood still and gazed
At his pursuers with provoking air
Of innocent wonder, dangling from his mouth
A bunch of apple blossoms, now and then
Mumbled in wantonness.

“Confound him! there!
He's at the golden pippin. Where's the gun?
Joe! run and fetch it—or—hold, hold—a rope!
We'll noose the rascal!”

Oh, my heart! my heart!
How died ye at the sound of guns and ropes!
But capture was not death; and he was caught—
Caught and led up to judgment. Willy! Willy!
That ever to such strait and to such woe
Thine evil courses should have brought us both!
For the decree went forth that parted us,
Thou to return to thy first owner's flock,
And I, bereaved, to mourn my merry mate.
Ah, doleful day! when for the last, last time
We two went forth together, thou, poor fool!
In thine unconscious gladness by my side
Trotting contentedly, though every step
Took thee to exile nearer, and my tears
Fell fast as summer raindrops. How I clung,
When to the farm we came, with sobbing clasp
About thy snowy neck, refusing comfort,
Although they told me, to assuage my grief,
A many flattering tales of good designed,
Peculiar good to thee. Thou wert to range
For life respected, master of the flock,
To crop the sweetest herbage, and be housed,
When winter came, in warm luxurious crib.
“But shall I see him sometimes?”

“Ay, ay, sure,
Often and often, when the flock comes back
From the far pastures.”

Back it came—alas!
I saw not Willy—saw him never more;
But half deluded still by glozing words,
I thought not, witless! of the butcher's cart,
Nor transmutation fell, by murderous sleight,
Of sheep to mutton. To thy manes peace,
Offending favourite, wheresoe'er thy grave!
Dear garden! once again, with lingering look,
Reverted, half remorseful, let me dwell
Upon thee as thou wert in that old time
Of happy days departed. Thou art changed,
And I have changed thee. Was it wisely done?
Wisely and well, they say who look thereon
With unimpassioned eye, cool, clear, undimmed
By moisture such as memory gathers oft
In mine, while gazing on the things that are,
Not with the hallowed past, the loved, the lost,
Associated as those I now retrace
With tender sadness. The old shrubbery walk,
Straight as an arrow, was less graceful far
Than this fair winding among flowers and turf,
Till with an artful curve it sweeps from sight
To reappear again, just seen and lost
Among the hawthorns in the little dell.
Less lovely the old walk; but there I ran
Holding my mother's hand, a happy child;
There were her steps imprinted, and my father's,
And those of many a loved one, now laid low
In his last resting-place. No flowers, methinks,
That now I cultivate are half so sweet,
So bright, so beautiful, as those that bloomed
In the old formal borders. These clove pinks
Yield not such fragrance as the true old sort
That spiced our pot-pourri, my mother's pride,
With such peculiar richness; and this rose,
With its fine foreign name, is scentless, pale,
Compared with the old cabbage—those that blushed
In the thick hedge of spiky lavender,
Such lavender as is not nowadays;
And gillyflowers are not as they were then,
Sure to “come double;” and the night breeze now
Sighs not so loaded with delicious scents
Of lily and sevinger. Oh, my heart!
Is all indeed so altered?—or art thou
The changeling, sore aweary now at times
Of all beneath the sun?

Such weariness
Knows not that blessed spring-time of the heart
When “treasures dwell in flowers.” How glad was I,
How joyously exultant, when I found
Such virtues in my flowery treasury
As hitherto methought discoverer's eye
Had passed unheeded! Here at once I found,
Unbought, unsued for, the desired command—
How longingly desired!—of various dyes,
Wherewith to tint the semblance incomplete
In its hard pencil outline, of those forms
Of floral loveliness, whose juices now
Supplied me with a palette of all hues,
Bright as the rainbow. Brushes lacked I none
For my rude process, the soft flower or leaf
Serving for such; its moisture nice expressed
By a small cunning hand, where'er required
The imitative shadow to perfect
With glowing colour. Heavens! how plain I see,
Even at this moment, the first grand result
Of that occult invention. There it lies,
Living as life itself (I thought no less),
A sprig of purple stock, that dullest eye
Must have detected, and fault-finding critic
Have owned at least a likeness. Mother's love
Thought it perfection, when with stealing step
And flushing face and conscious, I drew near,
And laid it on her lap without a word,
Then hung upon her shoulder, shrinking back
With a child's bashfulness, all hope and fear,
Shunning and courting notice.

But I kept
Profoundly secret certain floral rites
Observed with piously romantic zeal
Through half a summer. Heaven forgave full sure
The unconscious profanation; and the sin,
If sin there was, be on thy head, old friend,
Pathetic Gesner! for thy touching song,
That most poetic prose, recording sad
The earliest annals of the human race,
And death's first triumph, filled me, heart and brain,
With stirring fancies, in my very dreams
Exciting strange desires to realise
What to the inward vision was revealed,
Haunting it like a passion. For I saw,
Plain as in substance, that first human home
In the first earthly garden;—saw the flowers
Set round her leafy bower by banished Eve,
And watered with her tears, as they recalled
Faintly the forfeit Eden; the small rills
She taught to wander 'mongst their blooming tribes,
Completing, not the semblance, but the shade.
But beautiful, most beautiful, methought
The altar of green turf, whereon were laid
Offerings as yet unstained with blood—choice fruits,
And fairest flowers fresh culled.

“And God must still”—
So with myself I argued—“surely love
Such pure, sweet offerings. There can be no harm
In laying them, as Eve was wont, each day
On such an altar. What if I could make
Something resembling that!” To work I went,
With the strong purpose which is strength and power;
And in a certain unfrequented nook
Of our long rambling garden, fenced about
By thorns and bushes, thick with summer leaves,
And threaded by a little watercourse—
No substitute contemptible, methought,
For Eve's meandering rills—uprose full soon
A mound of mossy turf, that when complete
I called an altar; and with simple faith,
Ay, and with feelings of adoring love
Hallowing the childish error, laid thereon
Daily my floral tribute; yet from prayer,
Wherewith I longed to consecrate the act,
Refraining with an undefinèd fear,
Instinctive of offence: and there was doubt
Of perfect blamelessness, unconscious doubt,
In the suspicious, unrelaxing care
With which I kept my secret. All's not well,
When hearts, that should be open as the day,
Shrink from inspection. So by slow degrees
I grew uneasy and afraid, and longed
To cast off the strange burden; and at last,
Ceasing my visits to “the sacred grove,”
I soon forgot, absorbed in fresh pursuits,
The long-neglected altar—till one day,
When coming winter, with his herald blasts,
Had thinned the covert's leafiness, I saw
Old Ephraim in his clearing progress pause,
And strike his spade against a mossy heap,
Washed low by autumn's rains, and littered round
Among the thick-strewn leaves with spars and shells,
And broken pottery, and shrivelled things
That had been garlands.

“This is Missy's work,”
Quoth the old man, and shook his head, and smiled;
“Lord bless her! how the child has toiled and moiled
To scrape up all this rubbish. Here's enough
To load a jackass!”

Desecrated shrine!
Such was thy fate, demolished as he spoke;
And of my Idyl the concluding page.