 | A Selection from Unpublished Poems |  |
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.
| A Selection from Unpublished Poems | |