University of Virginia Library

SPRING.

How Solomon, the great wise king,
Welcomed the coming in of Spring,
You in his Bible-song may read.
He tells how flowers adorn the mead,
And how the singing-birds appear
Our hearts and homes again to cheer.
If you would know what the birds say,
While warbling all the livelong day,
Calling and answering one another,
Just as a sister would a brother,
You must hide under hedge or tree,
And be as still as still can be.
If there's a nest and young birds in it,
You'll hardly have to wait a minute
Ere you will see the old one come,
And though before the young seemed dumb
They'll all cry out, “Tweet, tweet, tweet,”
Knowing there's something good to eat;
And you'll see all the noisy brood
Gaping at once round her for food.
One glutton cries out, “Now me, now me,”
Although he knows he's had his tea;
Then the old bird says, “Let me see!
You, sir, I know, have twice been fed,
So must creep back again to bed;
You've only had one little fly;
Eat this and then go to ‘bye-bye.’
And you that are so very small
Have not yet had a taste at all;
But since that you so patient wait
I'll just fly back to yonder gate,
Where I saw a whole swarm of flies
All nice and fat, and such a size!
And these I'll bring you home to eat,
For you deserve the richest treat.”
The little bird says, “Tweet, tweet, tweet,”
Which means, “Dear mother, I can wait.”
Then off she flies to the old gate.
And he, most patient of them all,
That pretty bird so good and small,
Sits up and sups with his dear mother;
While in the nest his naughty brother
Who gaped, and cried, “Now me, now me,”
After he'd had so good a tea,
Lies crying and in great distress,
And all through his own greediness.
What pretty flowers does blue-eyed Spring
In her golden basket bring!
Flowers that everywhere are found
By her scattered on the ground.
Bell-shaped snowdrops, pure and white,
That on the dark mould make a light;
Crocuses of many a hue,
March down the borders into view;
While in the garths, and holms, and closes
Peep out the yellow-green primroses,
First beneath the sunny hedgerows,
Where by the stream the flag and sedge grows,
And the deep golden celandine
Like a miser's hoard doth shine.
And then amid dead leaves we meet
The violets that smell so sweet;
And sometimes in places shady,
Hooded like a lovely lady,
We the sheathëd arum find.
Or rocking in the April wind
The rich shot-velvet flowers we see
Of the deep-cupped anemone,
And the breezes pause to dally
With the sweet lilies-of-the-valley
Through which the ground-bee, his way making,
Sets all the ivory bells a-shaking,
Then humming goes where blue-bells stand
And make a little sky-stained land—
Light, dark, and pale, and every hue,
The heavens show in their shifting blue.
The star-shaped daisies, too, are out
O'er which you love to run and shout;
And soon the hawthorn will display
The bead-shaped buds that turn to may;
And o'er our heads laburnums hold
In their green hands thick chains of gold,
And swing them o'er the tiny flowers
That peep on tiptoe through their bowers.
Now labour goes on everywhere,
And sounds of out-door life we hear—
From osier-cutters by the river,
Where sunbeams on the ripples quiver—
From the brown woodman's sturdy stroke
As he fells the broad-branched oak;
And through an opening 'twixt the boughs
We see the milkmaid with her cows,
Who merrily o'er her pail doth sing;
We hear the blacksmith's anvil ring
From the low smithy in the dale;
The cuckoo's song borne on the gale
Comes mingled with the smell of may
From pastures where the lambs are bleating,
From lanes embowered through branches meeting,
Along which children wander singing
While homeward the may blossoms bringing,
Answered by birds from bush and tree
That drown the buzzing of the bee
By their loud-sounding melody.
And in their song you hear them say,
“Oh, isn't this a lovely day!
How sweet the fields smell after rain,
How glad we are Spring's come again!
We are but birds, and can but raise
Our little voices in His praise,
Who even sees the sparrow fall,
And keepeth watch alike o'er all.”

SUMMER.

But for the lengthening of the days,
And darkening of the close-leaved sprays,
The grass we see already mown,
The earing corn that's taller grown,
And other silent signs He made
Whom all creation hath obeyed,
We in our blindness could not find
Where blue-eyed Spring was left behind—
When Summer, with red roses crown'd,
Alighted on the sunny ground.
Nor can these sisters ever meet,
Although the print of Spring's fresh feet
Is everywhere by Summer seen
Among the flowers and grasses green;
Because upon the very day
That Summer comes Spring goes away.
And when Spring's gone up come the mowers
To cut down all the grass and flowers
Which she had grown in the wide closes;
And sun-tanned Summer, wreathed with roses,
Doth not a sign of grief display,
But makes the herbage into hay;
For well she knows another race
Of flowers will spring up in their place,
And such as Spring hath never known,
But are for Summer only grown.
No greater pleasure Summer yields
Than pleasant walks across the fields,
O'er footpaths that go in and out,
Broidered with flowers all round about.
For there the young birds we espy
That are just fledged enough to fly,
Though never far without a rest,
Nor yet a long way from the nest;
The old birds near at hand you'll see,
Watching their feathered family.
Where the trees throw a shadow cool
Half way across the flower-edged pool,
We see the patient cattle stand,
Glad to escape the buzzing band
That hover in the sunshine bright,
And on the grazing herd alight.
In that same pool another scene
Will fleck with light those shadows green,
When the sheep-washers gather there;
And many a bleating sound you'll hear
As in the water they are roll'd,
Then dripping, left to find the fold.
The little lambs all standing nigh,
Look on with a strange wondering eye,
And say, perhaps, to one another,
“Why, they've half drown'd my poor old mother!”
What a sweet smell floats every way
Upon the air, of new-mown hay;
The high-piled waggons pass the lane,
Are emptied and sent back again.
The horses of their own accord
Go plashing through the shallow ford;
And the dear children placed inside,
Delighted, through the water ride.
And in the field they run and shout,
And tumble all the hay about;
And as they bury one another,
Some little fellow they half smother.
And then there is a fine to do,
To coax, and kiss, and bring him to.
The cause why England is so green
Is through the sea all round her seen,
Which inland sends those gentle showers
That cover her with grass and flowers.
Such rich green pastures as our own
Nowhere throughout the world are known.
And now on waste lands we behold
The gorse-bush all one blaze of gold
And the tall foxglove's upconed spire
Seems like a pillar all on fire;
And the sweet woodbine red and white
Looks like a lady in the light,
Through some leaf-trellised casement peeping,
Convolvulus around her creeping.
Scenting the fragrant meadow-sweet,
Which by the cool clear stream we meet,
Such as the angler loves to see
While sitting patient 'neath some tree
In whose cool shadow the fish hide,
When all looks molten gold beside.
And now like gems at random flung,
The currant-bushes all are hung
With ruby, coral, pearl, and jet,
Whose sweetness no one can forget.
While overhead the crimson cherries
Look down upon the great gooseberries.
And the bees go humming round 'em,
And the sharp-eyed birds have found 'em.
The bird-pecked cherries vanish fleetest,
For they always are the sweetest.
Sometimes the long-horned butterfly,
Whose wings are of the richest dye,
With his thin tongue out may be seen
Sipping the juice where birds have been;
For he is deep enough to find
The spots where they have pierced the rind.
Gone is the lute-voiced nightingale,
That sang so in the wooded vale,
To other lands across the sea,
Where other singers soon will be.
For many a bird its note-book closes
When Summer has shed all her roses,
Bids us farewell, and sings no more
Until on some far-distant shore,
Where it will find another Spring.
Swallows still are twittering,
And it is a pleasant sight
To look upon their arrowy flight,
As they flash, and dart, and quiver,
With lightning-speed about the river.

AUTUMN.

Now all around our wave-washed coast
Is mustering a mighty host,
Who have resolved they will maintain
A war against the golden grain,
Till not an ear is left to stand
In any quarter of the land.
Would that all conquests brought such peace,
And happiness, and rich increase.
For now the ripened corn in motion
Makes a low murmur like the ocean
When the waves rolling to and fro
In measured pauses come and go.
And the glad harvest-shout once more
Goes ringing round from shore to shore,
And reapers who crooked sickles bear,
Are moving fieldward everywhere,
From thorpe, and grange, and busy town,
By hedge-bound paths and highways brown,
For now we see on every side
All Autumn's garners open'd wide.
First the bird-boy at early morn
Is sent afield to tent the corn.
You hear his clapper going all day,
While loud he shouts, “'Way birds, away!”
The birds place watchers here and there
Who give a chirp when he draws near,
And so they eat up many an ear.
And where the reaper low is bending,
We see the heavy ears descending,
But soon to rise in plumy sheaves
On the bare furrows which he leaves.
And in those spaces will be seen
The gleaners who have come to glean,
And scarcely miss one ear at all,
Which the tanned reapers have let fall.
Children now stoop amid the stubble,
Who their poor mothers often trouble
To let them leave their work and dine
Before the village clock strikes nine;
Left with the basket they'd devour
The whole day's food within an hour.
And often has their mother said,
“They would eat me if I was bread.”
Now for the wains a passage wide
Is made by throwing gates aside.
And all the hedges on the road
Are hung with ears dragg'd from the load.
And birds soon quit the plants in seed,
On such a rich repast to feed;
And those that fall upon the ground
Will be by long-tailed field-mice found.
And added to the little hoard,
Which they for winter wants have stored.
Autumn has still a few choice flowers
Which Summer left to deck her bowers.
The meadow-sweet's rich creamy truss,
And the pink ground-convolvulus.
The slender hare-bell, whose rich blue,
Is only worn by those who're true.
The eyebright, white and golden green,
Oft near the rose-a-ruby seen,
And crimson ling, and purple heather
That in the breeze both bow together,
And the deep scarlet pimpernel,
By which the hour of day we tell;
And fern steeped in the richest dye
That sunset throws about the sky.
Beautiful are the hop-grounds now,
Each bunch looks like a golden bough,
Reflecting back the ray that shines.
And there's a perfume in the bines
Of may-buds, blent with new-made hay;
A drowsy air doth round us play,
And in a sleepy land we seem—
Where we might lie at ease and dream,
All curtained round with green and gold—
Such as John Bunyan did behold.
Merry are they who gather in
The fragrant cones that fill the bin,
Though poor is the hop-picker's cheer
At this last harvest of the year,
That makes our Christmas ale and beer.
When Summer's flowers are all in blow
They make not a more gorgeous show
Than the rich patterns Autumn weaves
In looms of many-coloured leaves,
Where every colour we behold
And all the changing shades of gold.
And sweet green spots, the leaves concealed,
Through the rent curtains are revealed,
Wood, vale, and stream, the village spire
Whose vane the sunset tips with fire.
And sometimes as the day grows old
The white flock moving to the fold,
And many a picture hid in green
Till Autumn lifted up the scene.
When Autumn closes, what a roar
There is in those old forests hoar,
When the huge branches clash together
In dark November's windy weather,
And the tall trees come thundering down
On which the little squirrel brown
Had hid his nuts in some sly hole
The woodpecker made in the bole;
And there the woodman plies his trade
From dawn until the day doth fade,
Clearing away the underwood
Which tall and close in summer stood;
And many a bundle he will make—
Faggots and hurdles, post and stake,
And stacks of firewood piled up high
To meet cold Winter now so nigh;
And there the poor will find good picking
When to the woods they go “a-sticking,”
For many a mossy bough's laid low
By Autumn winds that loudly blow,
And from the oaks come pattering down
The acorns on the ferns so brown,
On which the hungry herd of swine
Will soon come grunting up to dine.

WINTER.

Now nights are long, and days are cold,
And many a flock without a fold
For shelter in the Winter weather
Beneath the hedge creep close together.
Oh, it is hard to be a sheep,
And to have nowhere else to sleep
But on the cold, wet, snowy ground,
Where not a wretched shed is found.
With no shoes to its little feet,
And nothing anywhere to eat
But frozen turnips hard as ice,
Not boiled and buttered and made nice,
Such as to your table go,
But cold enough to freeze your toe.
The man who takes them round the farm,
And beats his hands to make them warm,
Leaving long tracks upon the snow
Where'er his horse and cart doth go,
Feels in a sad and cheerless mood
To think they have no warmer food.
Feels pity as he hears them bleat
While gathering close around his feet,
Knowing for change he can but lay
In their cold troughs, chaff, straw, and hay.
Yet He will those dumb creatures mind
Who screens the shorn lamb from the wind,
He, whose great blue all-seeing eye
Looks down on us and fills the sky;
The Shepherd that doth never sleep,
But ever watches o'er His sheep.
Now in one night the ponds freeze o'er
That had no ice the day before,
And cattle when they come to drink
Go “boo,” and don't know what to think;
Full run some young bull at it goes,
And only gets a broken nose;
While the old cows, more wise by years,
Wait patient till the man appears,
And with his beetle, or his pole,
Breaks in the sheeted ice a hole.
On leafless hedges, heps and haws
Which the birds feed upon are froze,
And they, poor things, sit through all weathers,
Now huddled up like balls of feathers;
While the wind blows so cold and strong
We scarce can hear the robin's song,
Though he, unless it froze his throat,
Would still try to send out a note;
For well he knows through shine or storm
He has a duty to perform.
Says, “My red waistcoat keeps me warm,
And in it I can take no harm,
No other birds wear such a suit,
And that is why they all are mute.
I and the crimson holly-berry,
Alike make Winter bright and merry,
For when the Christmas carols ring,
I feel that I am forced to sing,
Though all around is white with rime;
For 'tis an old and holy time,
And robins anthemed in the morn
On which the Saviour Christ was born.
Then he sends out his highest note
Until he shakes his rubied throat;
And some who've listened have surmised
He's but a nightingale disguised.
The pretty golden-crested wren
Now ventures near the haunts of men,
And is the smallest bird that's found
To build and sing on English ground,
And like the robin redbreast, too,
Stays with us all the Winter through,
Although the weather is so cold
The woodman scarce his axe can hold,
Nor by the ditcher's sharp-edged spade
A dent upon the ground be made,
Nor yet a hardy winter-green
In any garden ground be seen.
So cold, we pity, while in bed,
The wild geese screaming overhead,
That come in flocks throughout the night,
And in our reedy marshes' light.
Nor can the skill of art surpass
The feathery frost-work on the glass;
One touch of the enchanter's wand
Has changed the panes to fairyland,
Never were seen in Summer bowers
Such ferns and leaves and strange-shaped flowers,
Mountains of frosted silver made
With dwarf-oaks leaning in the shade,
And where through banks the glass is seen
Clear rivers seem to flow between.
And scarce less wonders does the snow
In one night on the landscape show:
All well-known objects it enshrouds;
And far away like piled-up clouds
The hills and banks and hedges seem,
And all things move as in a dream.
So deadened now is every sound,
So deaf appears the silent ground
To tramp of foot or grind of wheel,
The horseman's close upon our heel
Before we knew he was so near,
So deep the snow lies everywhere.
But soon the short days longer grow,
The snowdrop peeps above the snow,
And on the spreading elder-tree
The first faint signs of leaves we see;
While where the grass is scarcely seen
There is a flush of tender green.
And sometimes on a sunny day
We see the little gnats at play;
Its winter haunt the wildfowl leaves,
The sparrows chirrup on the eaves,
And well the children understand
That Spring again is near at hand.
For they can now stop out to play
A little later every day,
Nor fail to thank God every night
For this increase of warmth and light,
Which makes each coming morn more bright.