 | English Roses |  |
ICHABOD.
The glory has departed from the village,
The country-side once fruitful now looks bare,
And broods above the wreck of former tillage
A shadow more than care;
The ploughshare rests and rusts within the furrow,
And on the bosom of the very plough
The lark has made its nest, and rabbits burrow
Beneath the golden bough
With apples big and pendulous, and thistles
Array their hostile spears and stand to arms
Among old Edens, and the blackbird whistles
To dimmed and dreary charms.
The country-side once fruitful now looks bare,
And broods above the wreck of former tillage
A shadow more than care;
The ploughshare rests and rusts within the furrow,
And on the bosom of the very plough
The lark has made its nest, and rabbits burrow
Beneath the golden bough
With apples big and pendulous, and thistles
Array their hostile spears and stand to arms
Among old Edens, and the blackbird whistles
To dimmed and dreary charms.
The conquering pick is dumb, and dark the splendour
Of work that early toiled and troubled late,
And made the niggard soil at last surrender
Its wealth a willing rate.
The labourer has fled the land, which brightened
Beneath his touch and lost its surly frown,
And the green robe of grace his culture heightened
Is but a russet gown;
The grass is growing where the path was trodden
Hard with the daily round and frequent feet,
And like a drownèd face the scene is sodden
With rot and rain unmeet.
Of work that early toiled and troubled late,
And made the niggard soil at last surrender
Its wealth a willing rate.
The labourer has fled the land, which brightened
Beneath his touch and lost its surly frown,
And the green robe of grace his culture heightened
Is but a russet gown;
The grass is growing where the path was trodden
Hard with the daily round and frequent feet,
475
With rot and rain unmeet.
The cottages are vacant, through the village
No pulse of echoing steps is heard or known,
As if the ruthless passions of red pillage
Had wrath and ruin sown;
No beautiful and brown dear country daughter
To meet the lover with a heart of flame,
Goes forth as timid as a lamb to slaughter
In crown of crimson shame;
No babble of rude voices at the turning
Breaks on the traveller as he passes by,
But desolation speaks with dismal yearning
And cannot get reply.
No pulse of echoing steps is heard or known,
As if the ruthless passions of red pillage
Had wrath and ruin sown;
No beautiful and brown dear country daughter
To meet the lover with a heart of flame,
Goes forth as timid as a lamb to slaughter
In crown of crimson shame;
No babble of rude voices at the turning
Breaks on the traveller as he passes by,
But desolation speaks with dismal yearning
And cannot get reply.
The barn-door creaks on dull complaining hinges
At every buffet of the peevish blast,
And the stray dog that in the corner cringes
Finds here a hopeless fast;
The thatch is peeling from the roof and tumbles
In idle litter on the empty yard,
And sombre styes which the same sentence humbles
Are wan and weather-scarred;
The boards with wet and frost are torn and tattered
And scarcely hung together yet hold on,
While up rise walls a framework bleached and battered—
A gaunt ribbed skeleton.
At every buffet of the peevish blast,
And the stray dog that in the corner cringes
Finds here a hopeless fast;
The thatch is peeling from the roof and tumbles
In idle litter on the empty yard,
And sombre styes which the same sentence humbles
Are wan and weather-scarred;
The boards with wet and frost are torn and tattered
And scarcely hung together yet hold on,
While up rise walls a framework bleached and battered—
A gaunt ribbed skeleton.
The rake is silent and the rumbling barrow
No longer groans its dusty drudging way,
And in the teeth of the deserted harrow
Unnoticed vermin play;
No horses plod the fields or in the stable
Stamp as they munch the welcome measured corn,
And from the lattice in the ivied gable
No faces flash with morn;
The rats have fled the threshing-floor, and idle
Flap shutters in the old unshielded spots,
And where once dangled polished bit and bridle
The mildew rests and rots.
No longer groans its dusty drudging way,
And in the teeth of the deserted harrow
Unnoticed vermin play;
No horses plod the fields or in the stable
Stamp as they munch the welcome measured corn,
And from the lattice in the ivied gable
No faces flash with morn;
The rats have fled the threshing-floor, and idle
Flap shutters in the old unshielded spots,
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The mildew rests and rots.
The church is closed for ever and the steeple
Has ceased to point the upward path to God,
And those calm porches by a reverend people
No more are duly trod;
Through shattered windows climbs the trailing creeper
And to the very altar rail it clings,
While no clear kindly voice to wake the sleeper
Now from the pulpit rings;
And slimy things have scribbled on the arches
Strange letters dank in solitude and dusk,
And ruin slowly through its riot marches
As worms within the husk.
Has ceased to point the upward path to God,
And those calm porches by a reverend people
No more are duly trod;
Through shattered windows climbs the trailing creeper
And to the very altar rail it clings,
While no clear kindly voice to wake the sleeper
Now from the pulpit rings;
And slimy things have scribbled on the arches
Strange letters dank in solitude and dusk,
And ruin slowly through its riot marches
As worms within the husk.
The rectory stands all dolorous in welter
Of grim decay which on it darkly lies,
For generations long a homely shelter
Of hospitalities;
Which opened ready arms to sin and sorrow
And took pale poverty in its warm breast,
Until the saddest there forgot the morrow
And reaped a vital rest;
But now that common sanctuary is broken,
And chaos from the gray and tottering walls
Grins like a gaping skull the doom unspoken
And revels as it falls.
Of grim decay which on it darkly lies,
For generations long a homely shelter
Of hospitalities;
Which opened ready arms to sin and sorrow
And took pale poverty in its warm breast,
Until the saddest there forgot the morrow
And reaped a vital rest;
But now that common sanctuary is broken,
And chaos from the gray and tottering walls
Grins like a gaping skull the doom unspoken
And revels as it falls.
The over-burdened land with tolls and taxes
Can yield no further round of grateful food,
Though care and skill have nursed the fields and axes
Been busy in the wood;
The soil requites no trust of toil or money,
And so the spade that conquers earth has sped,
While vainly ripen fruits and bees for honey
Lie in the lily's bed;
The curse has come and with its barren blighting
Spoils every work of man with fetid breath,
And summer suns that laugh are only lighting
The downward road to death.
Can yield no further round of grateful food,
Though care and skill have nursed the fields and axes
Been busy in the wood;
The soil requites no trust of toil or money,
And so the spade that conquers earth has sped,
While vainly ripen fruits and bees for honey
Lie in the lily's bed;
The curse has come and with its barren blighting
Spoils every work of man with fetid breath,
477
The downward road to death.
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