Life and Phantasy by William Allingham: With frontispiece by Sir John E. Millais: A design by Arthur H. Hughes and a song for voice and piano forte |
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THE STOLEN PATH. |
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 | Life and Phantasy |  |
73
THE STOLEN PATH.
Highways, byways, such are my ways;
Parks like this I detest,
Grumble to travel on miles of gravel
Through landscapes robb'd of their zest;
Even tho' the gatelodge sentry
Yields us privilege of entry,
Lets us view, in passing through,
Lawns and groves whose loneliness
Doth imprisonment express
Not freedom, rhododendron flowers
Lording it over woodland bowers,
Wandering rill damm'd up to make
A lazy, languid pleasure-lake,
(Who therein doth pleasure take?)
Clipt yews; geometric beds;
All 'twixt gate and gate that spreads.
Parks like this I detest,
Grumble to travel on miles of gravel
Through landscapes robb'd of their zest;
Even tho' the gatelodge sentry
Yields us privilege of entry,
Lets us view, in passing through,
Lawns and groves whose loneliness
Doth imprisonment express
Not freedom, rhododendron flowers
Lording it over woodland bowers,
Wandering rill damm'd up to make
A lazy, languid pleasure-lake,
(Who therein doth pleasure take?)
Clipt yews; geometric beds;
All 'twixt gate and gate that spreads.
Where is that old Pathway's line,
Which, could we find it, is yours and mine,
Free from before King Alfred's day;
A winding walk, a pleasant way,
By mead and heath, by grove and glen,
Belonging to the feet of men
Past, present, and to come; that show'd
The prospect, saved the dusty road?
Those who already have too much
Would fain get all into their clutch;
The demon greed of robber kings
Is busy here in lesser things;
The Path is gone; not shut by law,
But filch'd with shameless cunning paw
And swallow'd: none at hand to dare
Beard the culprit in his lair,
The Great Man, to whose mind are known
No rights at all except his own,
Who fain would shut from every eye
Th'old landscape and more ancient sky,
Save upon sufferance. Honour'd sir,
Reflect! Art thou indeed a cur,
A caitiff? What, beneath the sun,
Hast thou, have those before thee, done,
To earn so huge an overshare
Of the world's good things? Have a care,
Lest, when your Worship sits on high,
A pilferer of twigs to try,
Or casual poacher, some one cry
In accents of contempt and wrath,
“Who stole our ancient Public Path?”
—A crime incomparably worse
Than his who merely takes a purse,
Poor devil! with the treadmill near;
No Magistrate, M.P., or Peer.
Which, could we find it, is yours and mine,
Free from before King Alfred's day;
A winding walk, a pleasant way,
By mead and heath, by grove and glen,
Belonging to the feet of men
Past, present, and to come; that show'd
The prospect, saved the dusty road?
74
Would fain get all into their clutch;
The demon greed of robber kings
Is busy here in lesser things;
The Path is gone; not shut by law,
But filch'd with shameless cunning paw
And swallow'd: none at hand to dare
Beard the culprit in his lair,
The Great Man, to whose mind are known
No rights at all except his own,
Who fain would shut from every eye
Th'old landscape and more ancient sky,
Save upon sufferance. Honour'd sir,
Reflect! Art thou indeed a cur,
A caitiff? What, beneath the sun,
Hast thou, have those before thee, done,
To earn so huge an overshare
Of the world's good things? Have a care,
Lest, when your Worship sits on high,
A pilferer of twigs to try,
Or casual poacher, some one cry
In accents of contempt and wrath,
“Who stole our ancient Public Path?”
—A crime incomparably worse
Than his who merely takes a purse,
Poor devil! with the treadmill near;
No Magistrate, M.P., or Peer.
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