 | The rural muse poems |  |
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TO THE RIGHT HON. EARL FITZWILLIAM, THIS VOLUME OF POEMS IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,
BY HIS LORDSHIP'S MOST HUMBLE AND OBLIGED SERVANT, THE AUTHOR.
67
PASTORAL FANCIES.
Sweet pastime here my mind so entertains,
Abiding pleasaunce, and heart-feeding joys,
To meet this blithsome day these painted plains,
These singing maids, and chubby laughing boys,
Which hay-time and the summer here employs,—
My rod and line doth all neglected lie;
A higher joy my former sport destroys:
Nature this day doth bait the hook, and I
The glad fish am, that's to be caught thereby.
Abiding pleasaunce, and heart-feeding joys,
To meet this blithsome day these painted plains,
These singing maids, and chubby laughing boys,
Which hay-time and the summer here employs,—
My rod and line doth all neglected lie;
A higher joy my former sport destroys:
Nature this day doth bait the hook, and I
The glad fish am, that's to be caught thereby.
This silken grass, these pleasant flowers in bloom,
Among these tasty molehills that do lie
Like summer cushions, for all guests that come;
Those little feathered folk, that sing and fly
Above these trees, in that so gentle sky,
Where not a cloud dares soil its heavenly light;
And this smooth river softly grieving bye—
All fill mine eyes with so divine a sight,
As makes me sigh that it should e'er be night.
Among these tasty molehills that do lie
Like summer cushions, for all guests that come;
Those little feathered folk, that sing and fly
Above these trees, in that so gentle sky,
Where not a cloud dares soil its heavenly light;
And this smooth river softly grieving bye—
All fill mine eyes with so divine a sight,
As makes me sigh that it should e'er be night.
68
In sooth, methinks the choice I most should prize
Were in these meadows of delight to dwell,
To share the joyaunce heaven elsewhere denies,
The calmness that doth relish passing well,
The quiet conscience, that aye bears the bell,
And happy musing Nature would supply,
Leaving no room for troubles to rebel:
Here would I think all day, at night would lie,
The hay my bed, my coverlid the sky.
Were in these meadows of delight to dwell,
To share the joyaunce heaven elsewhere denies,
The calmness that doth relish passing well,
The quiet conscience, that aye bears the bell,
And happy musing Nature would supply,
Leaving no room for troubles to rebel:
Here would I think all day, at night would lie,
The hay my bed, my coverlid the sky.
So would I live, as nature might command,
Taking with Providence my wholesome meals;
Plucking the savory peascod from the land,
Where rustic lad oft dainty dinner steals.
For drink, I'd hie me where the moss conceals
The little spring so chary from the sun,
Then lie, and listen to the merry peals
Of distant bells—all other noises shun;
Then court the Muses till the day be done.
Taking with Providence my wholesome meals;
Plucking the savory peascod from the land,
Where rustic lad oft dainty dinner steals.
For drink, I'd hie me where the moss conceals
The little spring so chary from the sun,
Then lie, and listen to the merry peals
Of distant bells—all other noises shun;
Then court the Muses till the day be done.
Here would high joys my lowly choice requite,
For garden plot, I'd choose this flow'ry lea;
Here I in culling nosegays would delight,
The lambtoe tuft, the paler culverkey:
The cricket's mirth were talk enough for me,
When talk I needed; and when warmed to pray,
The little birds my choristers should be,
Who wear one suit for worship and for play,
And make the whole year long one sabbath-day.
For garden plot, I'd choose this flow'ry lea;
Here I in culling nosegays would delight,
The lambtoe tuft, the paler culverkey:
The cricket's mirth were talk enough for me,
When talk I needed; and when warmed to pray,
The little birds my choristers should be,
Who wear one suit for worship and for play,
And make the whole year long one sabbath-day.
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A thymy hill should be my cushioned seat;
An aged thorn, with wild hops intertwined,
My bower, where I from noontide might retreat;
A hollow oak would shield me from the wind,
Or, as might hap, I better shed might find
In gentle spot, where fewer paths intrude,
The hut of shepherd swain, with rushes lined:
There would I tenant be to Solitude,
Seeking life's gentlest joys, to shun the rude.
An aged thorn, with wild hops intertwined,
My bower, where I from noontide might retreat;
A hollow oak would shield me from the wind,
Or, as might hap, I better shed might find
In gentle spot, where fewer paths intrude,
The hut of shepherd swain, with rushes lined:
There would I tenant be to Solitude,
Seeking life's gentlest joys, to shun the rude.
Bidding a long farewell to every trouble,
The envy and the hate of evil men;
Feeling cares lessen, happiness redouble,
And all I lost as if 'twere found again.
Vain life unseen; the past alone known then:
No worldly intercourse my mind should have,
To lure me backward to its crowded den;
Here would I live and die, and only crave
The home I chose might also be my grave.
The envy and the hate of evil men;
Feeling cares lessen, happiness redouble,
And all I lost as if 'twere found again.
Vain life unseen; the past alone known then:
No worldly intercourse my mind should have,
To lure me backward to its crowded den;
Here would I live and die, and only crave
The home I chose might also be my grave.
94
GENIUS.
A charm appears in every land,
A voice in every clime,
That beautifies the desert sand,
And renders earth sublime.
A voice in every clime,
That beautifies the desert sand,
And renders earth sublime.
Some meet it in the poet's song,
Some in the sage's fame;
Wherever seen, it pleases long,
And Genius is its name.
Some in the sage's fame;
Wherever seen, it pleases long,
And Genius is its name.
Scott found it with the Muse at first,
A stranger to her song;
He started as the music burst
In tremors from his tongue.
A stranger to her song;
He started as the music burst
In tremors from his tongue.
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He wondered at the sounds he made,
And thought himself alone;
But by him stood that Spirit-shade
That marked him for her own;
And thought himself alone;
But by him stood that Spirit-shade
That marked him for her own;
Who smiled to see his timid hand
Pause on the sounding strings,
That echoed charms o'er sea and land
For peasants and for kings.
Pause on the sounding strings,
That echoed charms o'er sea and land
For peasants and for kings.
But Byron, like an eagle, flew
His daring flight, and won;
And looked, and felt, as though he knew
Eternity begun.
His daring flight, and won;
And looked, and felt, as though he knew
Eternity begun.
As thunder in its startled call—
As lightning from the cloud—
Seen, heard, and known above them all—
The proudest of the proud!
As lightning from the cloud—
Seen, heard, and known above them all—
The proudest of the proud!
He dared the world a war to wage,
He scorned the critics' mock,
And soared the mightiest of the age.—
The condor of the rock
He scorned the critics' mock,
And soared the mightiest of the age.—
The condor of the rock
Screamed from the dizzy Apennines,
As startled by his flight,
When Manfred sought the searing shrines
Of demons in his might.
As startled by his flight,
When Manfred sought the searing shrines
Of demons in his might.
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Fear left him to the thunder-shock,
His eyrie none could own;
The smaller birds in coveys flock—
The eagle soars alone.
His eyrie none could own;
The smaller birds in coveys flock—
The eagle soars alone.
He died, as Glory wills to die—
A martyr to its name;
A youth, in manhood's majesty,
A patriarch in fame.
A martyr to its name;
A youth, in manhood's majesty,
A patriarch in fame.
From history's visions Scott has won
A heritage sublime;
Rising a giant in the sun,
Too overgrown for Time,
A heritage sublime;
Rising a giant in the sun,
Too overgrown for Time,
Who fled to see a mortal soar,
And leave him underneath,
As one of old, his conqueror—
So sought the aid of Death,
And leave him underneath,
As one of old, his conqueror—
So sought the aid of Death,
Who lays the mighty with the low,
The humble with the brave;—
Behind his cloud the sun must go,
And Scott is in his grave.
The humble with the brave;—
Behind his cloud the sun must go,
And Scott is in his grave.
But Genius soars above the dead,
Too mighty for his power;
And deserts where his journey led,
Spell-bound, are still in flower!
Too mighty for his power;
And deserts where his journey led,
Spell-bound, are still in flower!
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By poesy kept for times unborn;
And when those times are gone,
The worth of a remoter morn
Shall find them shining on.
And when those times are gone,
The worth of a remoter morn
Shall find them shining on.
For poesy is verse or prose,
Not bound to Fashion's thrall;
No matter where true Genius grows,
'Tis beautiful in all.
Not bound to Fashion's thrall;
No matter where true Genius grows,
'Tis beautiful in all.
Or high or low, its beacon-fires
Shall rise in every way,
Till drowsy Night the blaze admires,
And startles into day—
Shall rise in every way,
Till drowsy Night the blaze admires,
And startles into day—
A day that rises like the sun
From clouds of spite and thrall,
Which gains, before its course be run,
A station seen by all.
From clouds of spite and thrall,
Which gains, before its course be run,
A station seen by all.
Its voice grows thunder's voice with age,
Till Time turns back, and looks;
Its breath embalms the flimsy page,
And gives a soul to books.
Till Time turns back, and looks;
Its breath embalms the flimsy page,
And gives a soul to books.
Through night at first it will rejoice,
And travel into day,
Pursuing, with a still small voice,
That light that leads the way.
And travel into day,
Pursuing, with a still small voice,
That light that leads the way.
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The grave its mortal dust may keep,
Where tombs and ashes lie;
Death only shall Time's harvest reap,
For Genius cannot die.
Where tombs and ashes lie;
Death only shall Time's harvest reap,
For Genius cannot die.
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THE PASTURE.
The pewit is come to the green,
And swoops o'er the swain at his plough.
Where the greensward in places is seen,
Pressed down by the lairs of the cow,
The mole roots her hillocks anew,
For seasons to dress at their wills
In their thyme, and their beautiful dew;
For the pasture's delight is its hills.
And swoops o'er the swain at his plough.
Where the greensward in places is seen,
Pressed down by the lairs of the cow,
The mole roots her hillocks anew,
For seasons to dress at their wills
In their thyme, and their beautiful dew;
For the pasture's delight is its hills.
They invite us, when weary, to drop
On their cushions awhile; and again
They invite us, when musing, to stop,
And see how they checker the plain:
And the old hills swell out in the sun,
So inviting e'en now, that the boy
Has his game of peg-morris begun,
And cuts his rude figures in joy.
On their cushions awhile; and again
They invite us, when musing, to stop,
And see how they checker the plain:
And the old hills swell out in the sun,
So inviting e'en now, that the boy
Has his game of peg-morris begun,
And cuts his rude figures in joy.
When I stroll o'er the mole-hilly green,
Stepping onward from hillock to hill,
I think over pictures I've seen,
And feel them deliciously still.
I think when the glad shepherd lay
On the velvet sward stretched, for a bed,
On the bosom of sunshiny May,
While a hillock supported his head.
Stepping onward from hillock to hill,
I think over pictures I've seen,
And feel them deliciously still.
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On the velvet sward stretched, for a bed,
On the bosom of sunshiny May,
While a hillock supported his head.
I think when, in weeding, the maid
Made choice of a hill for her seat;
When the winds so deliciously played
In her curls, 'mid her blushes so sweet.
I think of gay groups in the shade,
In hay-time, with noise never still,
When the short sward their gay cushions made.
And their dinner was spread on a hill.
Made choice of a hill for her seat;
When the winds so deliciously played
In her curls, 'mid her blushes so sweet.
I think of gay groups in the shade,
In hay-time, with noise never still,
When the short sward their gay cushions made.
And their dinner was spread on a hill.
I think when, in harvest, folks lay
Underneath the green shade of a tree,
While the children were busy at play,
Running round the huge trunk in their glee.
Joy shouted wherever I went;
And e'en now such a freshness it yields,
I could fancy, with books and a tent,
What delight we could find in the fields.
Underneath the green shade of a tree,
While the children were busy at play,
Running round the huge trunk in their glee.
Joy shouted wherever I went;
And e'en now such a freshness it yields,
I could fancy, with books and a tent,
What delight we could find in the fields.
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SONNETS.
I. RURAL SCENES.
I never saw a man in all my days—One whom the calm of quietness pervades—
Who gave not woods and fields his hearty praise,
And felt a happiness in summer shades.
There I meet common thoughts, that all may read
Who love the quiet fields:—I note them well,
Because they give me joy as I proceed,
And joy renewed, when I their beauties tell
In simple verse, and unambitious songs,
That in some mossy cottage haply may
Be read, and win the praise of humble tongues
In the green shadows of some after-day.
For rural fame may likeliest rapture yield
To hearts, whose songs are gathered from the field.
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II. WATER-LILIES.
The water-lilies on the meadow streamAgain spread out their leaves of glossy green;
And some, yet young, of a rich copper gleam,
Scarce open, in the sunny stream are seen,
Throwing a richness upon Leisure's eye,
That thither wanders in a vacant joy;
While on the sloping banks, luxuriantly,
Tending of horse and cow, the chubby boy,
In self-delighted whims, will often throw
Pebbles, to hit and splash their sunny leaves:
Yet quickly dry again, they shine and glow
Like some rich vision that his eye deceives;
Spreading above the water, day by day,
In dangerous deeps, yet out of danger's way.
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L. EARTH'S ETERNITY.
Man, Earth's poor shadow! talks of Earth's decay:But hath it nothing of eternal kin?
No majesty that shall not pass away?
No soul of greatness springing up within?
Thought-marks without? hoar shadows of sublime?
Pictures of power, which if not doomed to win
Eternity, stand laughing at old Time
For ages, in the grand ancestral line
Of things eternal, mounting to divine?—
I read Magnificence where ages pay
Worship, like conquered foes to the Apennine,
Because they could not conquer. There sits Day,
Too high for Night to come at—mountains shine,
Outpeering Time, too lofty for Decay.
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TO AN EARLY FRIEND.
Thou'st been to me a friend indeed,
I've proved it long ago;
I once did kindness deeply need,
And thou did'st thine bestow;
And shall my bosom be its grave,
That proved thy help divine?
No! one return true worth shall have,
Though ill requiting thine.
I've proved it long ago;
I once did kindness deeply need,
And thou did'st thine bestow;
And shall my bosom be its grave,
That proved thy help divine?
No! one return true worth shall have,
Though ill requiting thine.
When some were coy, and fear'd to praise,
Thine fearlessly was given;
Thy smile that cheer'd my early lays,
Was like a smile from Heaven.
When lone I droop'd in drear distress,
From pride and scoffers rude,
Thy helping hand was held to bless—
I took it and pursued.
Thine fearlessly was given;
Thy smile that cheer'd my early lays,
Was like a smile from Heaven.
When lone I droop'd in drear distress,
From pride and scoffers rude,
Thy helping hand was held to bless—
I took it and pursued.
Thy praise did drooping hopes renew,
That shrunk from feared disdain;
And joys like blossoms hung with dew,
Held up their heads again;
Thy friendship met my heart as such,
Whence heart-felt joys ensue,
Nor have they been the world's so much,
To prophesy untrue.
That shrunk from feared disdain;
And joys like blossoms hung with dew,
Held up their heads again;
Thy friendship met my heart as such,
Whence heart-felt joys ensue,
Nor have they been the world's so much,
To prophesy untrue.
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I prove thee now as none of those
Too often proved before,
That promise peace, with hopeless woes
To disappoint the more.
As sun-beams in a winter's sky
Smile warm, and chill again;
These rude pretenders flirted by
With promise void and vain.
Too often proved before,
That promise peace, with hopeless woes
To disappoint the more.
As sun-beams in a winter's sky
Smile warm, and chill again;
These rude pretenders flirted by
With promise void and vain.
I have been teased with many a form
Of friendship idly told,
Intruding language uttered warm,
And soon as uttered—cold;
Hope's blighted blossoms have been mine,
And these to many fall;
But I have met and found in thine,
A recompense for all.
Of friendship idly told,
Intruding language uttered warm,
And soon as uttered—cold;
Hope's blighted blossoms have been mine,
And these to many fall;
But I have met and found in thine,
A recompense for all.
The world need not know whom thou art,
'Twill add no fame to thee;
'Twould deem thy deeds a patron's part,
But they are more to me.
And should'st thou doubt the nameless birth,
To whom these lines belong;
Then think whose heart has proved thy worth,
And thine will claim the song.
'Twill add no fame to thee;
'Twould deem thy deeds a patron's part,
But they are more to me.
And should'st thou doubt the nameless birth,
To whom these lines belong;
Then think whose heart has proved thy worth,
And thine will claim the song.
THE END.
| The rural muse poems | |