 | A Selection from Unpublished Poems |  |
5
MUSINGS.
Before the falling summer sun
The boughs are shining all as gold,
And down below them waters run,
As there in former years they roll'd;
The poolside wall is glowing hot,
The pool is in a dazzling glare,
And makes it seem as, ah! 'tis not,
A summer when my life was fair.
The boughs are shining all as gold,
And down below them waters run,
As there in former years they roll'd;
The poolside wall is glowing hot,
The pool is in a dazzling glare,
And makes it seem as, ah! 'tis not,
A summer when my life was fair.
The evening, gliding slowly by,
Seems one of those that long have fled;
The night comes on to star the sky
As then it darken'd round my head.
A girl is standing by yon door,
As one in happy times was there,
And this day seems, but is no more,
A day when all my life was fair.
Seems one of those that long have fled;
The night comes on to star the sky
As then it darken'd round my head.
A girl is standing by yon door,
As one in happy times was there,
And this day seems, but is no more,
A day when all my life was fair.
We hear from yonder feast the hum
Of voices, as in summers past;
And hear the beatings of the drum
Again come throbbing on the blast.
There neighs a horse in yonder plot,
As once there neigh'd our petted mare,
And summer seems, but ah! is not,
The summer when our life was fair.
Of voices, as in summers past;
And hear the beatings of the drum
Again come throbbing on the blast.
There neighs a horse in yonder plot,
As once there neigh'd our petted mare,
And summer seems, but ah! is not,
The summer when our life was fair.
6
THE LITTLE GUIDE.
Where rambled on the meadow brook,
Along its winding row of sedge;
Where went the path, by mound and nook,
To climb at last the downside ledge;
And aftermath had sprouted quick,
And green, around the gray new rick;
Along its winding row of sedge;
Where went the path, by mound and nook,
To climb at last the downside ledge;
And aftermath had sprouted quick,
And green, around the gray new rick;
'Twas there a little girl came by,
With closely-patted steps, and led
A woman blind, whose hand held high
The child's beside her little head,
Along the ground that once, with sight
All clear, she skimm'd with tiptoe flight.
With closely-patted steps, and led
A woman blind, whose hand held high
The child's beside her little head,
Along the ground that once, with sight
All clear, she skimm'd with tiptoe flight.
The child could lead the woman right
By her sweet light of two blue eyes;
The woman's mind could give a light
To help the child's, less widely wise,
As all may find wherewith to pay
For deeds of love in some good way.
By her sweet light of two blue eyes;
The woman's mind could give a light
To help the child's, less widely wise,
As all may find wherewith to pay
For deeds of love in some good way.
The child told her of things the sun
Around her feet now shone upon;
She told the child, from her long run
Of life, of things for ever gone:
The child show'd her the day o'erhead—
She showed the child whole year-times fled.
Around her feet now shone upon;
She told the child, from her long run
Of life, of things for ever gone:
The child show'd her the day o'erhead—
She showed the child whole year-times fled.
7
FLOWERS A-FIELD.
In hay-fields where the hedge-boughs cope
The sunny hedge-bank's flow'ry slope,
Out where the prickly wildrose blows,
Above the bloomy bramble-bows,
Some maiden cries “The briars prick
My fingers to the very quick;
Come pull me down a wild rose, do,
For I can't cope with it like you!”
The sunny hedge-bank's flow'ry slope,
Out where the prickly wildrose blows,
Above the bloomy bramble-bows,
Some maiden cries “The briars prick
My fingers to the very quick;
Come pull me down a wild rose, do,
For I can't cope with it like you!”
And out in meadows, where the hay,
Now nearly dry, is rustling gray,
Before the touch of rake or prongs,
And under women's merry songs;
Then there, as I by chance come by,
The laughing girls, I hear them cry,
“Come pull me down a woodbine, do,
For I can't reach it there. Can you?”
Now nearly dry, is rustling gray,
Before the touch of rake or prongs,
And under women's merry songs;
Then there, as I by chance come by,
The laughing girls, I hear them cry,
“Come pull me down a woodbine, do,
For I can't reach it there. Can you?”
And down beside the river's brim,
Where whirling waters softly swim—
Where we can see the bulrush nod
Its club upon its slender rod;
Then there, as merry girls behold
The water-lily's flow'r of gold,
They cry, “Oh! rake me out one, do,
For I can't reach it in. Can you?”
Where whirling waters softly swim—
Where we can see the bulrush nod
Its club upon its slender rod;
Then there, as merry girls behold
The water-lily's flow'r of gold,
They cry, “Oh! rake me out one, do,
For I can't reach it in. Can you?”
8
CLIFFWOOD.
By Cliffwood rocks I took my way
With sorrow-sunken mind,
As slowly waned the ling'ring day
To labour-worn mankind.
No shadow fell on slope or dell,
'Twas sunless, though not wet;
The sun was clouded off to me,
I saw not where it set.
With sorrow-sunken mind,
As slowly waned the ling'ring day
To labour-worn mankind.
No shadow fell on slope or dell,
'Twas sunless, though not wet;
The sun was clouded off to me,
I saw not where it set.
I pass'd the lawn where once I sought
My joy at Mary's door,
And where I linger'd still in thought,
When I was there no more.
For while all gay in merry play,
We there at evening met,
Unheeded sank the hornèd moon,
I saw not when it set.
My joy at Mary's door,
And where I linger'd still in thought,
When I was there no more.
For while all gay in merry play,
We there at evening met,
Unheeded sank the hornèd moon,
I saw not when it set.
I came from foreign lands, once more
By that dear way to roam;
But she's no longer at her door,
She's at a better home.
That she had lain one day in pain
No tidings did I get;
My sun went down unknown to me,
I knew not when it set.
By that dear way to roam;
But she's no longer at her door,
She's at a better home.
That she had lain one day in pain
No tidings did I get;
My sun went down unknown to me,
I knew not when it set.
9
OUR CHURCH.
How brightly our church, this sunny time,
Shows out on the hill its light-gray wall,
And five-sounded tower, rising tall
Above the dark yew and leafy lime,
And flinging its merry sounds of bells
Out over the many-fielded dells!
Shows out on the hill its light-gray wall,
And five-sounded tower, rising tall
Above the dark yew and leafy lime,
And flinging its merry sounds of bells
Out over the many-fielded dells!
Though I have my roof beside the spring,
And yours is beside the hollow oak,
And some by the street may send up smoke,
And others' lone doors by fields may swing,
Still there are the chimes that sweetly call
Us all to the house that stands for all.
And yours is beside the hollow oak,
And some by the street may send up smoke,
And others' lone doors by fields may swing,
Still there are the chimes that sweetly call
Us all to the house that stands for all.
For all, at Our Lord's high call, to go
To share of His graces; glad, but meek;
And hear the good words His love may speak,
As unto His children, high and low;
Our own to go up that he may bless
Our fast-wedded loves with holiness.
To share of His graces; glad, but meek;
And hear the good words His love may speak,
As unto His children, high and low;
Our own to go up that he may bless
Our fast-wedded loves with holiness.
Our own where Our Lord, in goodness, takes
Our children to make them all His own;
And kindred, beneath cold earth or stone,
May sleep till their souls' bright morning breaks.
Through every change of good and ill,
We there have our church beside the hill.
Our children to make them all His own;
And kindred, beneath cold earth or stone,
May sleep till their souls' bright morning breaks.
Through every change of good and ill,
We there have our church beside the hill.
10
EARLY DAYS.
Ay, then, as our days began to shine
At Meldon, we gaily look'd, in mind,
To years coming on in longsome line,
With few that we yet had left behind.
We planted the walnut tree, knee-tall,
That now showers nuts in longsome fall.
The cypress we set, to see it rise
House-high as the years went by.
At Meldon, we gaily look'd, in mind,
To years coming on in longsome line,
With few that we yet had left behind.
We planted the walnut tree, knee-tall,
That now showers nuts in longsome fall.
The cypress we set, to see it rise
House-high as the years went by.
The stream, that from woody slopes onwound,
By willowy meads, or mounds, to wend
Where under some church-bells' Sunday sound
Some house overroof'd an early friend,
The many-miled road, that climb'd the hill,
Or fell by the bridge, or streamside mill,
Reached on by the milestone's mossy face,
The way to some friends yet gay.
By willowy meads, or mounds, to wend
Where under some church-bells' Sunday sound
Some house overroof'd an early friend,
The many-miled road, that climb'd the hill,
Or fell by the bridge, or streamside mill,
Reached on by the milestone's mossy face,
The way to some friends yet gay.
In spring when the Easter wind blew dry,
Or shed a few drops of glittering rain,
Or under the Whitsuntide's blue sky
Lay flowery field or dusty lane;
Or else at the feast, if all might fay,
We took from our work a holiday,
To go and to see how some old friend
Might fare, and his life might wear.
Or shed a few drops of glittering rain,
Or under the Whitsuntide's blue sky
Lay flowery field or dusty lane;
Or else at the feast, if all might fay,
We took from our work a holiday,
To go and to see how some old friend
Might fare, and his life might wear.
Of earlier friends we find, about
The land, only two or three in ten,
But children come in, for elders out,
To fill up the losing world again.
And we, at our death losses, bewail
Lost faces, and not lives' lower tale,
And many must be the souls in bliss
Whose day never wears away.
The land, only two or three in ten,
But children come in, for elders out,
To fill up the losing world again.
11
Lost faces, and not lives' lower tale,
And many must be the souls in bliss
Whose day never wears away.
ARISE, O WINDS!
Arise, O winds, and drive away
The curling fog by mound or nook,
For we to-day would see you play
Along the lightly-sparkling brook.
By brook and brake,
O winds, awake.
The curling fog by mound or nook,
For we to-day would see you play
Along the lightly-sparkling brook.
By brook and brake,
O winds, awake.
Arise! but do not mar our way
With clouds of dust to blind our eyes,
For we would look this holiday
On all the charms of land and skies.
By hill and lake,
O winds, awake.
With clouds of dust to blind our eyes,
For we would look this holiday
On all the charms of land and skies.
By hill and lake,
O winds, awake.
O winds, blow on! but do not fly
With dark'ning clouds of sudden show'rs,
For we would pass the fields all dry
Among the heads of summer flow'rs.
Sweep hill and plain,
But not with rain.
With dark'ning clouds of sudden show'rs,
For we would pass the fields all dry
Among the heads of summer flow'rs.
Sweep hill and plain,
But not with rain.
And come to-night to clear away
The clouds that o'er the moon may pass,
For we may wish to see you play
By moonshades on the beech-side grass.
So make, we pray,
A happy day.
The clouds that o'er the moon may pass,
For we may wish to see you play
By moonshades on the beech-side grass.
So make, we pray,
A happy day.
12
TIME STEALS AWAY.
Ay! if you mark the sunny ground,
Where now the maypole shade may fall,
It soon will wheel a span around,
While seeming not to go at all.
I know not how the time is flown
Since you and I met here one May;
A day of rest, a season blest,
For oh! how time will steal away.
Where now the maypole shade may fall,
It soon will wheel a span around,
While seeming not to go at all.
I know not how the time is flown
Since you and I met here one May;
A day of rest, a season blest,
For oh! how time will steal away.
While once our evening mirth began,
The candle's glossy stem was tall,
But soon burnt down, a long half-span,
Though seeming not to sink at all.
The time is gone, I know not how,
Since there we gather'd, young and gay,
In nights of joys, with merry noise,
For oh! how lifetime steals away.
The candle's glossy stem was tall,
But soon burnt down, a long half-span,
Though seeming not to sink at all.
The time is gone, I know not how,
Since there we gather'd, young and gay,
In nights of joys, with merry noise,
For oh! how lifetime steals away.
The winterbourne, when o'er the dell
The spring was green, was flowing fast,
And then fell dry, but who can tell
What day and hour it ran its last.
I know not how the time has fled
Since there, with you, I flung the hay,
In youth's gay pride, in hope's fair tide,
For oh! how lifetime steals away.
The spring was green, was flowing fast,
And then fell dry, but who can tell
What day and hour it ran its last.
I know not how the time has fled
Since there, with you, I flung the hay,
In youth's gay pride, in hope's fair tide,
For oh! how lifetime steals away.
As when the ship goes under sail
Far out before the sounding beach,
And, while we hear some friend's new tale,
She sinks beyond our eyesight's reach.
So time has gone, I know not how,
Since we had picnics on the bay.
The happy year, the summer dear,
Of time that softly steals away.
Far out before the sounding beach,
And, while we hear some friend's new tale,
She sinks beyond our eyesight's reach.
13
Since we had picnics on the bay.
The happy year, the summer dear,
Of time that softly steals away.
PROUD OF HIS HOME.
Up under the wood, where treetips sway
All green, though by skyshine tinted gray;
Above the soft mead, where waters glide,
Here narrow and swift, there slow and wide,
Up there is my house, with rose-trimm'd walls,
By land that up-slopes, and land that falls—
On over the mill, and up on the ridge,
Up on the ledge above the bridge.
All green, though by skyshine tinted gray;
Above the soft mead, where waters glide,
Here narrow and swift, there slow and wide,
Up there is my house, with rose-trimm'd walls,
By land that up-slopes, and land that falls—
On over the mill, and up on the ridge,
Up on the ledge above the bridge.
The wind, as it comes along the copse,
Is loud with the rustling trees' high tops;
The wind from beyond the brook is cool,
And sounds of the ever-whirling pool:
Up there at my house, with well-trimmed thatch,
And lowly-wall'd lawn, and archèd hatch,
Beside the tall trees where blackbirds sing—
Over the rock, and water spring.
Is loud with the rustling trees' high tops;
The wind from beyond the brook is cool,
And sounds of the ever-whirling pool:
Up there at my house, with well-trimmed thatch,
And lowly-wall'd lawn, and archèd hatch,
Beside the tall trees where blackbirds sing—
Over the rock, and water spring.
And when from the north the wind blows cold,
The trees are my screen, a hundred fold;
And wind that may blow from southern skies,
Through quivering limetrees softly sighs,
And out in the west a tow'r stands gray,
And hills on the eastward fade away—
From under the wood, above the mill,
Over the stream, below the hill.
The trees are my screen, a hundred fold;
And wind that may blow from southern skies,
Through quivering limetrees softly sighs,
And out in the west a tow'r stands gray,
And hills on the eastward fade away—
From under the wood, above the mill,
Over the stream, below the hill.
14
As people along the road go by,
They suddenly turn their heads awry,
They slacken their canter to a trot,
With “Oh! what a pretty little spot!”
They take for their trot a walking pace,
With “Heigh! what a charming little place!”
They lift up their hands with wond'ring look,
With “Lo! what a lovely little nook!”
They suddenly turn their heads awry,
They slacken their canter to a trot,
With “Oh! what a pretty little spot!”
They take for their trot a walking pace,
With “Heigh! what a charming little place!”
They lift up their hands with wond'ring look,
With “Lo! what a lovely little nook!”
They see my laburnums' chains of gold,
And pallid blue lilacflow'rs unfold;
They look at my fuchsias' hanging bells,
And calceolarias' yellow shells,
And cups of my lilies, white as snow,
And pinks as they hang their blossoms low;
And then at my roses, fine and fair
As ever have sweeten'd summer air.
And pallid blue lilacflow'rs unfold;
They look at my fuchsias' hanging bells,
And calceolarias' yellow shells,
And cups of my lilies, white as snow,
And pinks as they hang their blossoms low;
And then at my roses, fine and fair
As ever have sweeten'd summer air.
They look at my rose with open eyes,
With “Oh! what a handsome shape and size;”
They put up their hand to breast or hair,
To fancy they put my rose up there;
They put up a leaf below the nose,
To fancy they smell my fine moss-rose;
With back-looking face they go their ways,
With “Oh! that's the place that people praise.”
With “Oh! what a handsome shape and size;”
They put up their hand to breast or hair,
To fancy they put my rose up there;
They put up a leaf below the nose,
To fancy they smell my fine moss-rose;
With back-looking face they go their ways,
With “Oh! that's the place that people praise.”
The foot-weary man that there may tread
The road, with no place to lay his head,
Will say, as he heaves his sighing breast,
“How blest is the man with that sweet nest!”
And bachelors fain would own the care
Of sweet little children playing there—
Up under the wood, on Meldon ridge,
Up by the road, from Meldon bridge.
The road, with no place to lay his head,
Will say, as he heaves his sighing breast,
“How blest is the man with that sweet nest!”
And bachelors fain would own the care
Of sweet little children playing there—
Up under the wood, on Meldon ridge,
Up by the road, from Meldon bridge.
15
HOW GREAT BECOME.
How great I do become! How great!
With all my children now full grown,
And settled, each a wedded mate,
And all with children of their own.
I first was one, and then one more
Well-wived; and children made me ten;
And they with all their wives or men,
And children, make me now two score,
With children's children, far or nigh,
How great I am become! Am I?
With all my children now full grown,
And settled, each a wedded mate,
And all with children of their own.
I first was one, and then one more
Well-wived; and children made me ten;
And they with all their wives or men,
And children, make me now two score,
With children's children, far or nigh,
How great I am become! Am I?
I own a share of Weston folk,
On Norton work I have some hands,
At Beechley I send up a smoke,
My surname sounds on Ashridge lands.
In Meldon church my voices sing,
Yes, there I have young tongues to pray,
And I have boys and girls at play
Below the rocks, at Clevewell spring.
With all the souls that I may claim
How great I am! How great my name!
On Norton work I have some hands,
At Beechley I send up a smoke,
My surname sounds on Ashridge lands.
In Meldon church my voices sing,
Yes, there I have young tongues to pray,
And I have boys and girls at play
Below the rocks, at Clevewell spring.
With all the souls that I may claim
How great I am! How great my name!
But oh! how little can I track
The longsome team of father men,
That runs, from me to elders, back
A chain of links beyond my ken.
O'er what dear heads, by one and one,
My name at length came down on me
I know not now, nor may I see
Below me one child's child's sweet son.
No. I am only one of all
Those links of life. But one. How small!
The longsome team of father men,
That runs, from me to elders, back
A chain of links beyond my ken.
O'er what dear heads, by one and one,
My name at length came down on me
I know not now, nor may I see
Below me one child's child's sweet son.
No. I am only one of all
Those links of life. But one. How small!
16
LEAZING-TIME.
And there by our houses, beside the hillbrow,
With houses of neighbours around,
Were ash trees out-branching in many a bough
O'er slow-wheeling shades on the ground:
And thistle-down, wavering white
From grass-stalk to stalk giddy-flighted.
With houses of neighbours around,
Were ash trees out-branching in many a bough
O'er slow-wheeling shades on the ground:
And thistle-down, wavering white
From grass-stalk to stalk giddy-flighted.
Then warm was the wall-side, by ivy leaves green,
Or gray flakes of moss overlaid;
And cool seemed the blue sheet of sky that was seen
Through tree-boughs, dark-green in the shade,
Where people, with slow-lagging feet,
Come glowing in face, over-heated.
Or gray flakes of moss overlaid;
And cool seemed the blue sheet of sky that was seen
Through tree-boughs, dark-green in the shade,
Where people, with slow-lagging feet,
Come glowing in face, over-heated.
There down in some nook in the stubble-brown'd lands
Were gleaming the rick-trimmers' hooks,
And leazers, all plying their down-dipping hands,
Stepped onward, with down-stooping looks,
Or girls up the hill, by the trees,
Came on with their headloads of leazings.
Were gleaming the rick-trimmers' hooks,
And leazers, all plying their down-dipping hands,
Stepped onward, with down-stooping looks,
Or girls up the hill, by the trees,
Came on with their headloads of leazings.
The horseman, unseen in the lane, let us see,
From up-springing dust-clouds, his speed,
As foot-folk came tripping, by tree after tree
Of thorns on the down, to the mead,
Where shunning, in shadows, the glare
Of the sun, stood the cows of the dairy.
From up-springing dust-clouds, his speed,
As foot-folk came tripping, by tree after tree
Of thorns on the down, to the mead,
Where shunning, in shadows, the glare
Of the sun, stood the cows of the dairy.
17
A LIFE.
Oh! youth and health glow'd in her cheek
The while she grew up from a child,
Full kind in words, in mind ever meek,
And sweet in her looks when she smiled.
With joy and with hope all her aimings were high,
And gay were her years,
Few were her tears,
And comely her gait as we saw her go by.
The while she grew up from a child,
Full kind in words, in mind ever meek,
And sweet in her looks when she smiled.
With joy and with hope all her aimings were high,
And gay were her years,
Few were her tears,
And comely her gait as we saw her go by.
But months and years, passing apace,
Soon made her thoughtful and pale,
And thought and care marked on her face
That love had unfolded a tale
That waken'd up dreams of a change in her life.
And now she look'd on,
Meek-soul'd and wan,
To trials and joys of a mother and wife.
Soon made her thoughtful and pale,
And thought and care marked on her face
That love had unfolded a tale
That waken'd up dreams of a change in her life.
And now she look'd on,
Meek-soul'd and wan,
To trials and joys of a mother and wife.
From hope to grief sadden'd her state;
While young was her child, her firstborn;
For ill, then worse, then lost, was her mate,
And she was a widow forlorn.
In lonesomeness taking her labour won bread,
Although by her child,
Sorrow beguiled,
While sad for the loss of her stay that was dead.
While young was her child, her firstborn;
For ill, then worse, then lost, was her mate,
And she was a widow forlorn.
In lonesomeness taking her labour won bread,
Although by her child,
Sorrow beguiled,
While sad for the loss of her stay that was dead.
O, look, behold! there is her bier
Out under the dark-headed yew;
With eyes and cheeks wet with a tear,
And drooping, upmuffled from view,
Her child, a meek maid, walketh weeping behind.
But she shall have friends
Make her amends,
For God in His love will keep her well in mind.
Out under the dark-headed yew;
With eyes and cheeks wet with a tear,
And drooping, upmuffled from view,
Her child, a meek maid, walketh weeping behind.
But she shall have friends
Make her amends,
For God in His love will keep her well in mind.
18
THE VIEW BY THE TREES.
From up on the hill, I see, out through
The gap in the widelybroken rank
Of elm trees along the hillside bank,
The meadows and slopes, to hills of blue:
And roads where, from time to time, all day,
The people come on, and pass away.
The gap in the widelybroken rank
Of elm trees along the hillside bank,
The meadows and slopes, to hills of blue:
And roads where, from time to time, all day,
The people come on, and pass away.
There low-headed horses slowly haul
The newly-made hay, uploaded high,
To ride on the waggon, rustling dry,
To rick up beside the brown-roof'd stall:
And still, as a load is on its track,
An emptied waggon rattles back.
The newly-made hay, uploaded high,
To ride on the waggon, rustling dry,
To rick up beside the brown-roof'd stall:
And still, as a load is on its track,
An emptied waggon rattles back.
And down at the bridge, the children look
Out over the stonen wall, to see
The angler, below the willow tree,
Outfling, on the stream, his baited hook:
The while, from an arm-load bent awry,
The home-going maiden passes by.
Out over the stonen wall, to see
The angler, below the willow tree,
Outfling, on the stream, his baited hook:
The while, from an arm-load bent awry,
The home-going maiden passes by.
And there, as beneath the sinking sun,
The cows, at the boy's loud cry, “How! How!”
Go home to the pail; some ling'ring cow
Before the loud dog begins to run;
While horsemen along the road may go,
And each in his business, quick or slow.
The cows, at the boy's loud cry, “How! How!”
Go home to the pail; some ling'ring cow
Before the loud dog begins to run;
While horsemen along the road may go,
And each in his business, quick or slow.
There passes the girl to choose, in shops
In town, a new dress with dainty taste;
And there the sad mother steps with haste
Back home with the precious medicine drops;
Still sobbing a prayer that they may save
Her dear little child from, oh! the grave.
In town, a new dress with dainty taste;
And there the sad mother steps with haste
Back home with the precious medicine drops;
Still sobbing a prayer that they may save
Her dear little child from, oh! the grave.
19
LIFE.
A-field, from day to day,
We see quick shapes of life at ev'ry turn,
Each seeking, in its way,
The forms of good for which its kind may yearn.
But oh! the ways
Of might with helplessness, where life is strife,
And oh! the woes
Of smaller, slain to yield the stronger life.
We see quick shapes of life at ev'ry turn,
Each seeking, in its way,
The forms of good for which its kind may yearn.
But oh! the ways
Of might with helplessness, where life is strife,
And oh! the woes
Of smaller, slain to yield the stronger life.
We see the hare's last springs
Of fear-strain'd limbs, before the harrier's feet;
We see the sparrow's wings
Flap out, below the hawk, their dying beat.
Where pools may lie
The swallow sweeps away the dancing fly;
In streamlets low,
To yield the pike more life, the perch must die.
Of fear-strain'd limbs, before the harrier's feet;
We see the sparrow's wings
Flap out, below the hawk, their dying beat.
Where pools may lie
The swallow sweeps away the dancing fly;
In streamlets low,
To yield the pike more life, the perch must die.
But then, again, we see
The faithful bird o'erwatch his sitting hen,
And watch-rooks on the tree
To warn the grounded flock of coming men.
In loving mood
Stand horses, neck o'er neck, within the cool;
And down the mead
The cows, all friendly, seek the drinking pool.
The faithful bird o'erwatch his sitting hen,
And watch-rooks on the tree
To warn the grounded flock of coming men.
In loving mood
Stand horses, neck o'er neck, within the cool;
And down the mead
The cows, all friendly, seek the drinking pool.
And what, then, must we deem
That our best good is built on others' ill?
Or may it rather seem
That we are blest in lovingness of will?
Howe'er it be,
All we are bidden to be kind to all,
As days come by,
And still enhance the good of great and small.
That our best good is built on others' ill?
Or may it rather seem
That we are blest in lovingness of will?
20
All we are bidden to be kind to all,
As days come by,
And still enhance the good of great and small.
THE OLD HOLLOW ROAD.
(Packhorse Road.)
(A)
Well, people say this hollow track
Was never made for wheels and springs;
But worn by packhorses in strings,
With wares, on ev'ry horse a pack,
Was never made for wheels and springs;
But worn by packhorses in strings,
With wares, on ev'ry horse a pack,
Before, by yonder plain and ridge,
The road was stean'd two-waggons wide,
Where wheels now spin and horsemen ride,
On high-cast bank and high-bowed bridge.
The road was stean'd two-waggons wide,
Where wheels now spin and horsemen ride,
On high-cast bank and high-bowed bridge.
(B)
The road climb'd up, onwinding deep
Beside the ashes on the height,
Where elderflow'rs are hanging white
O'er yonder crowds of cluster'd sheep.
Beside the ashes on the height,
Where elderflow'rs are hanging white
O'er yonder crowds of cluster'd sheep.
And up at Holway men would shout
“Hold hard,” or else would blow a horn
On their side of the way, to warn
Oncomers back, till they were out.
“Hold hard,” or else would blow a horn
On their side of the way, to warn
Oncomers back, till they were out.
(A)
And then it struck along the glades
Above the brook, to Rockley spring,
And meads, where now you hear the ring
Of mowers' briskly-whetted blades.
Above the brook, to Rockley spring,
And meads, where now you hear the ring
Of mowers' briskly-whetted blades.
(B)
And then it sunk, the slope to dive
Through Pebbleford, where uncle took
His way across the flooded brook,
But never reach'd his home alive.
Through Pebbleford, where uncle took
His way across the flooded brook,
But never reach'd his home alive.
21
And then it touch'd the ridgy ground
With marks of walls, where Deanton stood;
Though now the houses, stone and wood,
Are gone, with all their tongues and sound.
With marks of walls, where Deanton stood;
Though now the houses, stone and wood,
Are gone, with all their tongues and sound.
(B)
Our elders there, as we are told,
Had once their homes, and doors to close
Between warm hearths and winter snows;
And there play'd young, and there grew old.
Had once their homes, and doors to close
Between warm hearths and winter snows;
And there play'd young, and there grew old.
THE ROOKS.
(1)
Ay! when the sun is near the ground,
At evening, in the western sky,
From west to eastward, all around,
The gathered rooks begin to fly.
At evening, in the western sky,
From west to eastward, all around,
The gathered rooks begin to fly.
(2)
In wedgelike flock, with one ahead,
They flap their glitt'ring wings in flight;
But did you ever hear it said
Whereto they take their way at night!
They flap their glitt'ring wings in flight;
But did you ever hear it said
Whereto they take their way at night!
(1)
At Akdean wood, folk say they meet,
To fold at night their weary wings,
And roost, with little clenching feet,
On boughs that nightwind softly swings.
To fold at night their weary wings,
And roost, with little clenching feet,
On boughs that nightwind softly swings.
(2)
O yes, at Akdean's shadowy ground
Are broad limb'd oaks, and ashes tall;
Black pines, and aspen trees that sound
As soft as water at a fall.
Are broad limb'd oaks, and ashes tall;
Black pines, and aspen trees that sound
As soft as water at a fall.
(1)
There I have spent some happy hours,
Where yellow sunshine broke through shades
On blue-bell beds and cowslip flow'rs,
And us among them, in the glades.
Where yellow sunshine broke through shades
On blue-bell beds and cowslip flow'rs,
And us among them, in the glades.
22
A NIGHT SONG, No. 1.
Oh! do you wake, or do you sleep
With window to the full-moon'd sky?
Oh! have you lost, or do you keep
A thought of all the day gone by?
Or are you dead to all you knew
Of life, the while I live to you?
With window to the full-moon'd sky?
Oh! have you lost, or do you keep
A thought of all the day gone by?
Or are you dead to all you knew
Of life, the while I live to you?
May air, o'er wallside roses brought,
Of charming gardens give you dreams;
May rustling leaves beguile your thought
With dreams of walks by falling streams.
And on your lids be light that yields
Bright dream-clouds over daisied fields.
Of charming gardens give you dreams;
May rustling leaves beguile your thought
With dreams of walks by falling streams.
And on your lids be light that yields
Bright dream-clouds over daisied fields.
Our meeting hour of yesterday
To me, now deep in waning night,
Seems all a glory pass'd away
Beyond a year-time's longsome flight.
Though night seems far too short to weigh
Your words and deeds of yesterday.
To me, now deep in waning night,
Seems all a glory pass'd away
Beyond a year-time's longsome flight.
Though night seems far too short to weigh
Your words and deeds of yesterday.
While rise or sink the glittering stars
Above dim woods, or hillock brows,
There, out within the moonpaled bars,
In darksome bunches sleep your cows.
So sweetly sleep, asleep be they
Until you meet the opening day.
Above dim woods, or hillock brows,
There, out within the moonpaled bars,
In darksome bunches sleep your cows.
So sweetly sleep, asleep be they
Until you meet the opening day.
23
A NIGHT SONG, No. 2.
Be it midnight, be it dawning,
Do the clouds hold up, or weep;
Be it moonlight, be it sunshine,
Is no care to folk asleep.
So I linger not to tell you
How the midnight moon may soar;
But if one thing be your business,
'Tis that love is at the door.
Do the clouds hold up, or weep;
Be it moonlight, be it sunshine,
Is no care to folk asleep.
So I linger not to tell you
How the midnight moon may soar;
But if one thing be your business,
'Tis that love is at the door.
Whether leafy is the chestnut,
Or its chilly twigs be bare;
Whether dewy, whether frosty
Be the grass, is not your care.
So forget until the morning,
Land below, and sky above;
But it should be worth your knowing,
That before your gate is love.
Or its chilly twigs be bare;
Whether dewy, whether frosty
Be the grass, is not your care.
So forget until the morning,
Land below, and sky above;
But it should be worth your knowing,
That before your gate is love.
Oh! how softly in our slumbers
Do we oft, unwitting, glide
From the day's end to the morrow,
Over midnight's gloomy tide.
So may every day that opens,
Bring to you its one joy more,
Till you live in peace and honour,
Blest with love within my door.
Do we oft, unwitting, glide
From the day's end to the morrow,
Over midnight's gloomy tide.
So may every day that opens,
Bring to you its one joy more,
Till you live in peace and honour,
Blest with love within my door.
24
Like a birdling, say the people,
Is young Love, that fain would roam,
Ever lively in his freedom,
But will die confined at home.
No. I feel that you will never
Find the love at my heart's core,
Flying, faithless, out of window
Though stern want should come to door.
Is young Love, that fain would roam,
Ever lively in his freedom,
But will die confined at home.
No. I feel that you will never
Find the love at my heart's core,
Flying, faithless, out of window
Though stern want should come to door.
| A Selection from Unpublished Poems | |