The Poetical Works of Robert Story

[These lines were addressed to Margarct, or, as I liked better to call her, Peggy Richardson, a young and pretty girl of Calder, on the Roddam estate, with whom I reaped more than one harvest, and who was the heroine of a juvenile poem of mine.]

The few corn-fields that Craven sees
Like patches on her landscape green,
Wave yellow now in sun and breeze,
Inviting out the sickle keen.

But who the sickle bears afield?
I see no fair and youthful band,
The peaceful weapon prompt to wield,
And clear—with mirth—the waving land.

A single reaper—(past belief!)
Plies awkwardly his lonely toil;
He makes the band, he binds the sheaf,
And rears the shock—without a smile!

Yet e'en this sight of single field
And single reaper, brings to me
A mood to which I like to yield—
A dream of Roddam fields and thee!

On Roddam's harvest-land, who now
Bid the hot day unheeded fly?
Is there a Maiden fair as thou?
Is there a Lover fond as I?

123

Dost recollect—when, side by side,
'Twas ours to lead the jovial band—
With what delight, and heart-felt pride,
I saw thee grace my dexter hand!

Dost recollect—'mid sickles' jar—
How rang, at jests, the laughter-chorus?
Our line, the while, extending far,
And driving half a field before us!

Dost recollect, at resting-time,
Announced by Roddam's village clock,
(Methinks e'en now I hear the chime!)
The squeeze beside the yellow shock?

Dost recollect, when evening came,
The dance got up with ready glee?
How active grew each wearied frame!
How lightly then I danced with thee!

Dost recollect—when half asleep
Thy mother and thy grumbling sire—
The pleasant watch we used to keep
For hours beside the smothered fire?

For e'en the fair Moon's radiance pure,
That trembled through the window blue,
Along the cottage furniture
Too strong a light—for lovers—threw!

But where art thou? and where am I?
And Roddam's corn-fields, where are they?
Ah! where the days when thou wert nigh,
The rainbow of my darkest day?

124

For fair thou wert; though ne'er, perchance,
So fair as my young fancy drew thee;—
I see, e'en yet, the roguish glance
That linked my captive heart unto thee!

And when I think of thee, I scarce
Can think of thee as differing aught
From her who once inspired my verse—
Though in myself a change is wrought.

The reaper's part that once I bore
Untired, I could not bear again;
And did thy sire make fast the door,
I could not enter at the pans!

The toilsome day would slowly pass;
Reflection nought could bring but woe;
And for the evening dance, alas!
One Scottish reel would make me blow.

Suppose us met in Roddam field—
I verging towards my fortieth year,
And thou not far behind—to wield,
As once we did, the sickle clear;

We could not chose but laugh—or weep;
The last would be my first employment,
To feel emotions—long asleep—
Re-wakening but to past enjoyment!

Is that the hand I loved to grasp!
Thine cannot be that cheek so wan!
Nor thine that waist! I used to clasp
A waist that my two hands could span!

125

Alas! the truth we might have known,
But would not, flashes on us now—
That youth must fly; for it hath flown,
And ceased to love have I and thou!

On Roddam fields another race
The part we took of old, have ta'en;
They toil—or toy—in each dear place
That ne'er shall meet our glance again!

Thus when a boy on Beaumont Side,
(A scene that is not strange to thee)
I saw the heath-bloom in its pride
Bend to the kiss of mountain bee:

And bees and blooms, no doubt, are rife
By Beaumont still; but never—never—
Shall those I saw in early life
Be seen again by that sweet river!

—Well; time does but to us award
The fate by millions felt before;
And I am Roddam's youthful bard,
Thou Calder's fairest flower no more!

University of Virginia Library

The few Corn-fields.