Poems, partly of rural life, (in national English.) By William Barnes |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
THE NIGHT-AIR. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
 | Poems, partly of rural life, (in national English.) |  |
56
THE NIGHT-AIR.
“Now you come in,” her mother cried.
“We're only going,” Jane replied,
“To bring the Henleys on their way
As far's the bridge. We shall not stay.”
“Ah! you'll be ill again in bed.
Why youv'e no bonnet on your head,
You know; and all your neck is bare:
You'll catch a cold in this night-air.”
“We're only going,” Jane replied,
“To bring the Henleys on their way
As far's the bridge. We shall not stay.”
“Ah! you'll be ill again in bed.
Why youv'e no bonnet on your head,
You know; and all your neck is bare:
You'll catch a cold in this night-air.”
“The fog is up beside the stream
In lower mead, as white as steam;
And in the leaze you'll only beat
The dew from grass to wet your feet.
And you will wander in a bog,
And breathe, for half an hour, of fog;
Though you were told you must beware
Of going out in this night-air.”
In lower mead, as white as steam;
And in the leaze you'll only beat
The dew from grass to wet your feet.
And you will wander in a bog,
And breathe, for half an hour, of fog;
Though you were told you must beware
Of going out in this night-air.”
57
“There, La! now mother, how you talk!
As if one might not take a walk
Down ‘home-ground’ on a road of stone,
Or through the mead that's lately mown!
Or, after melting all the day
Afield among the burning hay,
One must not look out any where
To get a breath of this cool air!”
As if one might not take a walk
Down ‘home-ground’ on a road of stone,
Or through the mead that's lately mown!
Or, after melting all the day
Afield among the burning hay,
One must not look out any where
To get a breath of this cool air!”
So off she went, and soon let go
Her brother's for her Egbert's bow;
And laugh'd in “home-ground,” at her fright
To see an owl in heavy flight;
And took up off its dewy blade,
Within the maple's mooncast shade,
A glow-worm, that with fiery glare
Was shining through the cool night-air.
Her brother's for her Egbert's bow;
And laugh'd in “home-ground,” at her fright
To see an owl in heavy flight;
And took up off its dewy blade,
Within the maple's mooncast shade,
A glow-worm, that with fiery glare
Was shining through the cool night-air.
They parted where the silver-weed
Grew dewy on the brookside mead,
And sparkling waves, with idle shocks,
Were dashing on the mossy rocks;
While, in the wood, the nightingale
Was telling his unanswer'd tale,
Though she, with joyful pride, heard there
A sweeter one in that night-air.
Grew dewy on the brookside mead,
And sparkling waves, with idle shocks,
Were dashing on the mossy rocks;
While, in the wood, the nightingale
Was telling his unanswer'd tale,
Though she, with joyful pride, heard there
A sweeter one in that night-air.
58
But Jane was taken ill and died;
And so was never Egbert's bride.
And who can blame her that allows
The witchery of lovers' vows?
And none could ever tell, for truth,
How 'twas she faded in her youth,
Though some, with confidence, declare
She caught her death in that night-air.
And so was never Egbert's bride.
And who can blame her that allows
The witchery of lovers' vows?
And none could ever tell, for truth,
How 'twas she faded in her youth,
Though some, with confidence, declare
She caught her death in that night-air.
And so she made her Egbert take
Again, and keep it for her sake,
A broach whereon there might be read
Her name in gold when she was dead.
And praying God he would forgive
Her sin for having wish'd to live,
She went to Heaven, angel-fair,
No more to breathe of our night-air.
Again, and keep it for her sake,
A broach whereon there might be read
Her name in gold when she was dead.
And praying God he would forgive
Her sin for having wish'd to live,
She went to Heaven, angel-fair,
No more to breathe of our night-air.
| Poems, partly of rural life, (in national English.) | |