The Poems of Robert Bloomfield :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poems of Robert Bloomfield

In Three Volumes

Bloomfield, Robert (1766-1823)

VOL. I. THE FARMER'S BOY, AND GOOD TIDINGS.

II.

VOL. II. RURAL TALES, AND WILD FLOWERS.

RURAL TALES.

WILD FLOWERS;

III.

VOL. III. BANKS OF WYE, AND MAY-DAY WITH THE MUSES.

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II. VOL. II. RURAL TALES, AND WILD FLOWERS.

RURAL TALES.

RICHARD AND KATE;

OR, FAIR-DAY.

A SUFFOLK BALLAD.

I

‘Come, Goody, stop your humdrum wheel,
‘Sweep up your orts, and get your hat;
‘Old joys reviv'd once more I feel,
‘'Tis Fair-day;—ay, and more than that.

II

‘Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say,
‘How many Seasons here we've tarried?
‘Tis Forty years, this very day,
‘Since you and I, old Girl, were married!

III

‘Look out; the Sun shines warm and bright,
‘The Stiles are low, the Paths all dry;
‘I know you cut your corns last night:
‘Come; be as free from care as I.

IV

‘For I'm resolv'd once more to see
‘That place where we so often met;
‘Though few have had more cares than we,
‘We've none just now to make us fret.’

V

Kate scorn'd to damp the generous flame
That warm'd her aged Partner's breast:
Yet, ere determination came,
She thus some trifling doubts express'd:

VI

‘Night will come on; when seated snug,
‘And you've perhaps begun some tale,
‘Can you then leave your dear stone mug;
‘Leave all the folks, and all the ale?’

VII

‘Ay, Kate, I wool;—because I know,
‘Though time has been we both could run,
‘Such days are gone and over now;—
‘I only mean to see the fun.’

VIII

She straight slipp'd off the Wall and Band,
And laid aside her Lucks and Twitches:
And to the Hutch she reach'd her hand,
And gave him out his Sunday Breeches.

IX

His Mattock he behind the door
And Hedging-gloves again replac'd;
And look'd across the yellow Moor,
And urg'd his tott'ring Spouse to haste.

X

The day was up, the air serene,
The Firmament without a cloud;
The Bee humm'd o'er the level green,
Where knots of trembling Cowslips bow'd.

XI

And Richard thus, with heart elate,
As past things rush'd across his mind,
Over his shoulder talk'd to Kate,
Who, snug tuckt up, walk'd slow behind.

XII

‘When once a giggling Mawther you.
‘And I a red-fac'd chubby Boy,
‘Sly tricks you play'd me not a few;
‘For mischief was your greatest joy.

XIII

‘Once, passing by this very Tree,
‘A Gotch of Milk I'd been to fill,
‘You shoulder'd me; then laugh'd to see
‘Me and my Gotch spin down the Hill.’

XIV

‘'Tis true,’ she said; ‘But here behold,
‘And marvel at the course of Time;
‘Though you and I are both grown old,
‘This Tree is only in its prime!’

XV

‘Well, Goody, don't stand preaching now;
‘Folks don't preach Sermons at a Fair:
‘We've rear'd Ten Boys and Girls you know;
‘And I'll be bound they'll all be there.’

XVI

Now friendly nods and smiles had they,
From many a kind Fair-going face:
And many a pinch Kate gave away,
While Richard kept his usual pace.

XVII

At length arriv'd amidst the throng,
Grand-children bawling hemm'd them round;
And dragg'd them by the skirts along
Where gingerbread bestrew'd the ground.

XVIII

And soon the aged couple spy'd
Their lusty Sons, and Daughters dear:—
When Richard thus exulting cried,
‘Did'nt I tell you they'd be here?’

XIX

The cordial greetings of the soul
Were visible in every face:
Affection, void of all controul,
Govern'd with a resistless grace.

XX

'Twas good to see the honest strife,
Which should contribute most to please;
And hear the long-recounted life,
Of infant tricks, and happy days.

XXI

But now, as at some nobler places,
Amongst the Leaders 'twas decreed
Time to begin the Dicky Races;
More fam'd for laughter than for speed.

XXII

Richard look'd on with wond'rous glee,
And prais'd the Lad who chanc'd to win;
‘Kate, wa'n't I such a one as he?
‘As like him, ay, as pin to pin.’

XXIII

‘Full Fifty years are pass'd away
‘Since I rode this same ground about;
‘Lord! I was lively as the day!
‘I won the High-lows out and out!’

XXIV

‘I'm surely growing young again:
‘I feel myself so kedge and plump.
‘From head to foot I've not one pain;
‘Nay, hang me if I cou'dn't jump.’

XXV

Thus spoke the Ale in Richard's pate,
A very little made him mellow;
But still he lov'd his faithful Kate,
Who whisper'd thus, ‘My good old fellow,’

XXVI

‘Remember what you promis'd me
‘And see, the Sun is getting low;
‘The Children want an hour ye see
‘To talk a bit before we go.’

XXVII

Like youthful Lover most complying
He turn'd, and chuckt her by the chin:
Then all across the green grass hying,
Right merry faces, all akin.

XXVIII

Their farewell quart, beneath a tree
That droop'd its branches from above,
Awak'd the pure felicity
That waits upon Parental Love.

XXIX

Kate view'd her blooming Daughters round,
And Sons, who shook her wither'd hand:
Her features spoke what joy she found;
But utterance had made a stand.

XXX

The Children toppied on the green,
And bowl'd their fairings down the hill;
Richard with pride beheld the scene,
Nor could he for his life sit still.

XXXI

A Father's uncheck'd feelings gave
A tenderness to all he said;
‘My Boys, how proud am I to have
‘My name thus round the country spread!

XXXII

‘Through all my days I've labour'd hard,
‘And could of pains and crosses tell;
‘But this is Labour's great reward,
‘To meet ye thus, and see ye well.’

XXXIII

‘My good old Partner, when at home,
‘Sometimes with wishes mingles tears;
‘Goody, says I, let what wool come,
‘We've nothing for them but our pray'rs.

XXXIV

‘May you be all as old as I,
‘And see your Sons to manhood grow;
‘And, many a time before you die,
‘Be just as pleas'd as I am now.’

XXXV

Then, (raising still his Mug and Voice,)
‘An Old Man's weakness don't despise!
‘I love you well, my Girls and Boys;
‘God bless you all;’—so said his eyes—

XXXVI

For as he spoke, a big round drop
Fell, bounding on his ample sleeve;
A witness which he could not stop,
A witness which all hearts believe.

XXXVII

Thou, Filial Piety, wert there;
And round the ring, benignly bright,
Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear,
And in the parting word—Good Night!

XXXVIII

With thankful Hearts and strengthen'd Love,
The poor old Pair, supremely blest,
Saw the Sun sink behind the grove,
And gain'd once more their lowly rest.

WALTER AND JANE;

OR, THE POOR BLACKSMITH.

A COUNTRY TALE.

Bright was the summer sky, the mornings gay,
And Jane was young and cheerful as the Day.
Not yet to Love but Mirth she paid her vows;
And Echo mock'd her as she call'd her Cows.
Tufts of green Broom, that full in blossom vied,
And grac'd with spotted gold the upland side,
The level fogs o'erlook'd; too high to share;
So lovely Jane o'erlook'd the clouds of Care;

No meadow-flow'r rose fresher to the view,
That met her morning footsteps in the dew;
Where, if a nodding stranger ey'd her charms,
The blush of innocence was up in arms,
Love's random glances struck th' unguarded mind,
And Beauty's magic made him look behind.

Duly as morning blush'd or twilight came,
Secure of greeting smiles and Village fame,
She pass'd the Straw-roof'd Shed, in ranges where
Hung many a well-turn'd Shoe and glitt'ring Share,
Where Walter, as the charmer tripp'd along,
Would stop his roaring Bellows and his Song.—

Dawn of affection; Love's delicious sigh!
Caught from the lightnings of a speaking eye,
That lead'st the heart to rapture or to woe,
'Twas Walter's fate thy madd'ning power to know
And scarce to know, ere in its infant twine,
As the Blast shakes the tendrils of the Vine,

The budding bliss that full of promise grew
The chilling blight of separation knew.
Scarce had he told his heart's unquiet case,
And Jane to shun him ceas'd to mend her pace,
And learnt to listen trembling as he spoke,
And fondly judge his words beyond a joke;
When, at the Goal that bounds our prospects here,
Jane's widow'd Mistress ended her career:
Blessings attended her divided store,
The Mansion sold, (Jane's peaceful home no more,)
A distant village own'd her for its Queen,
Another service, and another scene;
But could another scene so pleasing prove,
Twelve weary miles from Walter and from Love?
The Maid grew thoughtful: yet to Fate resign'd,
Knew not the worth of what she'd left behind.

He, when at eve releas'd from toil and heat,
Soon miss'd the smiles that taught his heart to beat,

Each sabbath-day of late was wont to prove
Hope's liberal feast, the holiday of Love:
But now, upon his spirit's ebbing strength
Came each dull hour's intolerable length.
The next had scarcely dawn'd when Walter hied
O'er hill and dale, Affection for his guide:
O'er the brown Heath his pathless journey lay,
Where screaming Lapwings hail'd the op'ning day.
High rose the Sun, the anxious Lover sigh'd;
His slipp'ry soles bespoke the dew was dried:
Her last farewell hung fondly on his tongue
As o'er the tufted Furze elate he sprung;
Trifling impediments; his heart was light,
For Love and Beauty glow'd in fancy's sight;
And soon he gaz'd on Jane's enchanting face,
Renew'd his passion,—but destroy'd his peace.
Truth, at whose shrine he bow'd, inflicted pain;
And Conscience whisper'd, “never come again.”

For now, his tide of gladness to oppose,
A clay-cold damp of doubts and fears arose;
Clouds, which involve, midst Love and Reason's strife,
The poor man's prospect when he takes a wife.
Though gay his journeys in the Summer's prime,
Each seem'd the repetition of a crime;
He never left her but with many a sigh,
When tears stole down his face, she knew not why
Severe his task those visits to forego,
And feed his heart with voluntary woe,
Yet this he did; the wan Moon circling found
His evenings cheerless, and his rest unsound;
And saw th' unquenched flame his bosom swell:
What were his doubts, thus let the Story tell.

A month's sharp conflict only serv'd to prove
The pow'r, as well as truth, of Walter's love.
Absence more strongly on his mind pourtray'd
His own sweet, injur'd, unoffending Maid.

Once more he'd go; full resolute awhile,
But heard his native bells on every stile;
The sound recall'd him with a pow'rful charm,
The Heath wide open'd, and the day was warm;
There, where a bed of tempting green he found,
Increasing anguish weigh'd him to the ground;
His well-grown limbs the scatter'd Daisies press'd,
While his clinch'd hand fell heavy on his breast.

‘Why do I go in cruel sport to say,
“I love thee, Jane, appoint the happy day?”
‘Why seek her sweet ingenuous reply,
‘Then grasp her hand and proffer—poverty?
‘Why, if I love her and adore her name,
‘Why act like time and sickness on her frame!
‘Why should my scanty pittance nip her prime,
‘And chase away the Rose before its time?
‘I'm young, 'tis true; the world beholds me free,
‘Labour ne'er show'd a frightful face to me;

‘Nature's first wants hard labour should supply;
‘But should it fail, 'twill be too late to fly.
‘Some Summers hence, if nought our loves annoy,
‘The image of my Jane may lisp her joy;
‘Or, blooming boys with imitative swing
‘May mock my arm, and make the Anvil ring;
‘Then if in rags—But, O my heart, forbear,—
‘I love the Girl, and why should I despair?
‘And that I love her all the village knows;
‘Oft from my pain the mirth of others flows;
‘As when a neighbour's Steed with glancing eye
‘Saw his par'd hoof supported on my thigh:
‘Jane pass'd that instant; mischief came of course;
‘I drove the nail awry and lam'd the Horse;
‘The poor beast limp'd: I bore a Master's frown,
‘A thousand times I wish'd the wound my own.
‘When to these tangling thoughts I've been resign'd,
‘Fury or languor has possess'd my mind,

‘All eyes have star'd, I've blown a blast so strong;
‘Forgot to smite at all, or smote too long.
‘If at the Ale-house door, with careless glee,
‘One drinks to Jane, and darts a look on me;
‘I feel that blush which her dear name will bring,
‘I feel:—but, guilty Love, 'tis not thy sting!
‘Yet what are jeers? the bubbles of an hour;
‘Jane knows what Love can do, and feels its pow'r;
‘In her mild eye fair Truth her meaning tells;
‘'Tis not in looks like hers that falsehood dwells.
‘As water shed upon a dusty way
‘I've seen midst downward pebbles devious stray;
‘If kindred drops an adverse channel keep,
‘The crystal friends toward each other creep;
‘Near, and still nearer, rolls each little tide,
‘Th' expanding mirror swells on either side:
‘They touch—'tis done—receding bound'ries fly,
‘An instantaneous union strikes the eye:

‘So 'tis with us: for Jane would be my bride;
‘Shall coward fears then turn the bliss aside?’

While thus he spoke he heard a gentle sound,
That seem'd a jarring footstep on the ground:
Asham'd of grief, he bade his eyes unclose,
And shook with agitation as he rose;
All unprepar'd the sweet surprise to bear,
His heart beat high, for Jane herself was there.—

Flusht was her cheek; she seem'd the full-blown flower
For warmth gave loveliness a double power;
Round her fair brow the deep confusion ran,
A waving handkerchief became her fan,
Her lips, where dwelt sweet love and smiling ease
Puff'd gently back the warm assailing breeze.
‘I've travell'd all these weary miles with pain,
‘To see my native village once again;
‘And show my true regard for neighbour Hind:
‘Not like you, Walter, she was always kind.’

'Twas thus, each soft sensation laid aside,
She buoy'd her spirits up with maiden pride;
Disclaim'd her love, e'en while she felt the sting;
‘What, come for Walter's sake!’ 'Twas no such thing.
But when astonishment his tongue releas'd,
Pride's usurpation in an instant ceas'd:
By force he caught her hand as passing by,
And gaz'd upon her half-averted eye;
His heart's distraction, and his boding fears
She heard, and answer'd with a flood of tears;
Precious relief; sure friends that forward press
To tell the mind's unspeakable distress.
Ye Youths, whom crimson'd health and genuine fire
Bear joyous on the wings of young desire,
Ye, who still bow to Love's almighty sway,
What could true passion, what could Walter say?
Age, tell me true, nor shake your locks in vain,
Tread back your paths, and be in love again;

In your young days did such a favouring hour
Show you the littleness of Wealth and Pow'r,
Advent'rous climbers of the Mountain's brow,
While Love, their master, spreads his couch below.
“My dearest Jane,” the untaught Walter cried,
As, half repell'd, he pleaded by her side;
“My dearest Jane, think of me as you may”—
Thus—still unutter'd what he strove to say,
They breath'd in sighs the anguish of their minds,
And took the path that led to neighbour Hind's.

A secret joy the well-known roof inspir'd,
Small was its store, and little they desir'd;
Jane dried her tears; while Walter forward flew,
To aid the Dame; who to the brink updrew
The pond'rous Bucket as they reach'd the well,
And scarcely with exhausted breath could tell
How welcome to her Cot the blooming Pair,
O'er whom she watch'd with a maternal care.

“What ails thee, Jane?” the wary Matron cried,
With heaving breast the modest Maid reply'd,
Now gently moving back her wooden Chair
To shun the current of the cooling air;
“Not much, good Dame; I'm weary by the way;
“Perhaps, anon, I've something else to say.”
Now, while the Seed-cake crumbled on her knee,
And Snowy Jessamine peep'd in to see;
And the transparent Lilac at the door,
Full to the Sun its purple honors bore,
The clam'rous Hen her fearless brood display'd,
And march'd around; while thus the Matron said:
‘Jane has been weeping, Walter;—prithee why?
‘I've seen her laugh, and dance, but never cry.
‘But I can guess; with her you should have been,
‘When late I saw you loit'ring on the green;
I'm an old Woman, and the truth may tell;
‘I say then, Boy, you have not us'd her well.’

Jane felt for Walter; shar'd his cruel pain,
And Pity urg'd her e'en to tears again.
‘Don't scold him, Neighbour, he has much to say,
‘Indeed he came and met me by the way.’
The Dame resum'd—‘Why then, my Children, why
‘Do such young bosoms heave the piteous sigh?
‘The ills of Life to you are yet unknown;
‘Death's sev'ring shaft, and Poverty's cold frown:
‘I've felt them both by turns;—but as they pass'd,
‘Strong was my trust, and here I am at last.
‘When I dwelt young and cheerful down the Lane
‘(And, though I say it, I was much like Jane,)
‘O'er flow'ry fields with Hind, I lov'd to stray,
‘And talk, and laugh, and fool the time away:
‘And Care defied; who not one pain could give,
‘Till the thought came of how we were to live;
‘And then Love plied his arrows thicker still:
‘And prov'd victorious:—as he always will.

‘We brav'd Life's storm together; while that Drone,
‘Your poor old Uncle, Walter, liv'd alone.
‘He died the other day: when round his bed
‘No tender soothing tear Affection shed—
‘Affection! 'twas a plant he never knew;—
‘Why should he feast on fruits he never grew?

Walter caught fire: nor was he charm'd alone
With conscious Truth's firm elevated tone;
Jane from her seat sprang forward, half afraid,
Attesting with a blush what Goody said.
Her Lover took a more decided part:—
(O! 'twas the very Chord that touch'd his heart,)—
Alive to the best feelings Man can prize,
A Bridegroom's transport sparkled in his eyes;
Love, conquering power, with unrestricted range,
Silenc'd the arguments of Time and Change;
And led his vot'ry on, and bade him view,
And prize the light-wing d moments as they flew:

All doubts gave way, all retrospective lore,
Whence cooler Reason tortur'd him before;
Comparison of times, the Lab'rer's hire,
And many a truth Reflection might inspire,
Sunk powerless. “Dame, I am a fool,” he cried;
“Alone I might have reason'd till I died.
“I caus'd those tears of Jane's:—but as they fell
“How much I felt none but ourselves can tell.
“While dastard fears withheld me from her sight,
“Sighs reign'd by day and hideous dreams by night;
“'Twas then the Soldier's plume and rolling Drum
“Seem'd for a while to strike my sorrows dumb;
“To fly from Care then half resolv'd I stood,
“And without horror mus'd on fields of blood,
“But Hope prevail'd.—Be then the sword resign'd;
“And I'll make Shares for those that stay behind,
“And you, sweet Girl,”—

He would have added more,
Had not a glancing shadow at the door
Announc'd a guest, who bore with winning grace
His well-tim'd errand pictur'd in his face.
Around with silent reverence they stood;
A blameless reverence—the man was good.
Wealth he had some, a match for his desires,
First on the list of active Country 'Squires.
Seeing the youthful pair with downcast eyes,
Unmov'd by Summer flowers and cloudless skies,
Pass slowly by his Gate; his book resign'd,
He watch'd their steps, and follow'd far behind,
Bearing with inward joy, and bonest pride,
A trust of Walter's kinsman ere he died,
A hard-earn'd mite, deposited with care,
And with a miser's spirit worshipp'd there.

He found what oft the generous bosom seeks,
In the Dame's court'sies and Jane's blushing cheeks,

That consciousness of Worth, that freeborn Grace,
Which waits on Virtue in the meanest place.

‘Young Man, I'll not apologize to you,
‘Nor name intrusion, for my news is true;
‘'Tis duty brings me here: your wants I've heard,
‘And can relieve: yet be the dead rever'd.
‘Here, in this Purse, (what should have cheer'd a Wife,)
‘Lies, half the savings of your Uncle's life!
‘I know your history, and your wishes know;
‘And love to see the seeds of Virtue grow.
‘I've a spare Shed that fronts the public road,
‘Make that your Shop; I'll make it your abode.
‘Thus much from me,—the rest is but your due.’
That instant twenty pieces sprung to view.
Goody, her dim eyes wiping, rais'd her brow,
And saw the young pair look they knew not how;
Perils and Power while humble minds forego,
Who gives them half a Kingdom gives them woe;

Comforts may be procur'd and want defied,
Heav'ns! with how small a sum, when right applied!
Give Love and honest Industry their way,
Clear but the Sun-rise of Life's little day,
Those we term poor shall oft that wealth obtain,
For which th' ambitious sigh, but sigh in vain:
Wealth that still brightens, as its stores increase;
The calm of Conscience, and the reign of peace

Walter's enamour'd Soul, from news like this,
Now felt the dawnings of his future bliss;
E'en as the Red-breast shelt'ring in a bower,
Mourns the short darkness of a passing Shower,
Then, while the azure sky extends around,
Darts on a worm that breaks the moisten'd ground,
And mounts the dripping fence, with joy elate,
And shares the prize triumphant with his mate.
So did the Youth;—the treasure straight became
An humble servant to Love's sacred flame;

Glorious subjection!—Thus his silence broke:
Joy gave him words; still quick'ning as he spoke.

‘Want was my dread, my wishes were but few;
‘Others might doubt, but Jane those wishes knew
‘This Gold may rid my heart of pains and sighs;
‘But her true love is still my greatest prize.
‘Long as I live, when this bright day comes round,
‘Beneath my Roof your noble deeds shall sound;
‘But, first, to make my gratitude appear,
‘I'll shoe your Honour's Horses for a Year;
‘If clouds should threaten when your Corn is down,
‘I'll lend a hand, and summon half the town;
‘If good betide, I'll sound it in my songs,
‘And be the first avenger of your wrongs:
‘Though rude in manners, free I hope to live:
‘This Ale's not mine, no Ale have I to give;
‘Yet, Sir, though Fortune frown'd when I was born,
‘Let's drink eternal friendship from this Horn.

‘How much our present joy to thee we owe,
‘Soon our three Bells shall let the Neighbours know
‘The sound shall raise e'en stooping Age awhile,
‘And every Maid shall meet you with a smile;
‘Long may you live'—the wish like lightning flew;
By each repeated as the 'Squire withdrew.
‘Long may you live,’ his feeling heart rejoin'd;
Leaving well pleas'd such happy Souls behind.
Hope promis'd fair to cheer them to the end;
With Love their guide, and Goody for their friend.

THE MILLER'S MAID.

A TALE.

Near the High road, upon a winding stream,
An honest Miller rose to Wealth and Fame:
The noblest Virtues cheer'd his lengthen'd days,
And all the Country echo'd with his praise:
His Wife, the Doctress of the neighb'ring Poor ,
Drew constant pray'rs and blessings round his door.

One Summer's night, (the hour of rest was come)
Darkness unusual overspread their home;
A chilling blast was felt: the foremost cloud
Sprinkl'd the bubbling Pool; and thunder loud,

Though distant yet, menac'd the country round,
And fill'd the Heavens with its solemn sound.
Who can retire to rest when tempests lour?
Nor wait the issue of the coming hour?
Meekly resign'd she sat, in anxious pain;
He fill'd his pipe, and listen'd to the rain
That batter'd furiously their strong abode,
Roar'd in the Dam, and lash'd the pebbled road:
When, mingling with the storm, confus'd and wild,
They heard, or thought they heard, a screaming Child
The voice approach'd; and, 'midst the thunder's roar,
Now loudly begg'd for Mercy at the door.

Mercy was there: the Miller heard the call;
His door he opened; when a sudden squall
Drove in a wretched Girl; who weeping stood,
Whilst the cold rain dripp'd from her in a flood,
With kind officiousness the tender Dame
Rous'd up the dying embers to a flame;

Dry clothes procur'd, and cheer'd her shiv'ring guest,
And sooth'd the sorrows of her infant breast.
But as she stript her shoulders, lily-white,
What marks of cruel usage shock'd their sight!
Weals, and blue wounds, most piteous to behold
Upon a Child yet scarcely ten years old.

The Miller felt his indignation rise,
Yet, as the weary stranger clos'd her eyes,
And seem'd fatigu'd beyond her strength and years,
“Sleep, Child, (he said,) and wipe away your tears.”
They watch'd her slumbers till the storm was done;
When thus the generous Man again begun.
‘See, flutt'ring sighs that rise against her will,
‘And agitating dreams disturb her still!
‘Dame, we should know before we go to rest,
‘Whence comes this Girl, and how she came distrest.
‘Wake her, and ask; for she is sorely bruis'd:
‘I long to know by whom she's thus misus'd—

‘Child, what's your name? how came you in the storm?
‘Have you no home to keep you dry and warm;
‘Who gave you all those wounds your shoulders show?
‘Where are your Parents? Whither would you go?’

The Stranger bursting into tears, look'd pale,
And this the purport of her artless tale:

‘I have no Parents; and no friends beside:
‘I well remember when my Mother died:
‘My Brother cried; and so did I that day:
‘We had no Father;—he was gone away;
‘That night we left our home new clothes to wear.
‘The Workhouse found them; we were carried there
‘We lov'd each other dearlv; when we met
‘We always shar'd what trifles we could get.
‘But George was older by a year than me:—
‘He parted from me and was sent to Sea.
“Good-bye, dear Phœbe,” the poor fellow said:
‘Perhaps he'll come again; perhaps he's dead.

‘When I grew strong enough I went to place,
‘My Mistress had a sour ill-natur'd face;
‘And though I've been so often beat and chid,
‘I strove to please her, Sir; indeed, I did.
‘Weary and spiritless to bed I crept,
‘And always cried at night before I slept.
‘This morning I offended; and I bore
‘A cruel beating, worse than all before.
‘Unknown to all the House I ran away;
‘And thus far travell'd through the sultry day;
‘And, O don't send me back! I dare not go—’
‘I send you back!’ the Miller cried, ‘no, no.’
Th' appeals of Wretchedness had weight with him,
And Sympathy would warm him every limb;
He mutter'd, glorying in the work begun,

Well done, my little Wench; 'twas nobly done!
Then said, with looks more cheering than the fire,
And feelings such as Pity can inspire,

‘My house has childless been this many a year;
‘While you deserve it you shall tarry here.’
The Orphan mark'd the ardor of his eye,
Blest his kind words, and thank'd him with a sigh.

Thus was the sacred compact doubly seal'd;
Thus were her spirits rais'd, her bruises heal'd
Thankful, and cheerful too, no more afraid,
Thus little Phœbe was the Miller's Maid
Grateful they found her; patient of controul
A most bewitching gentleness of soul
Made pleasure of what work she had to do:
She grew in stature, and in beauty too.

Five years she pass'd in this delightful home;
Five happy years: but, when the sixth was come,
The Miller, from a Market Town hard by,
Brought home a sturdy Youth, his strength to try,
To raise the sluice-gates early every morn,
To heave his powder'd sacks and grind his corn:

And meeting Phœbe, whom he lov'd so dear,
‘I've brought you home a Husband, Girl; D'ye hear?
‘He begg'd for work; his money seem'd but scant.
‘Those that will work 'tis pity they should want .
‘So use him well, and we shall shortly see
‘Whether he merits what I've done, like thee.’

Now throbb'd her heart,—a new sensation quite,—
Whene'er the comely Stranger was in sight:
For he at once assiduously strove
To please so sweet a Maid, and win her love:
At ev'ry corner stopp'd her in her way;
And saw fresh beauties opening ev'ry day.
He took delight in tracing in her face
The mantling blush, and ev'ry nameless grace,
That Sensibility would bring to view,
When Love he mention'd;—Love, and Honour true.
But Phœbe still was shy; and wish'd to know
More of the honest Youth, whose manly brow

She verily believ'd was Truth's own throne,
And all his words as artless as her own:
Most true she judg'd; yet, long the Youth forbore
Divulging where, and how, he liv'd before;
And seem'd to strive his History to hide,
Till fair Esteem enlisted on his side.
The Miller saw, and mention'd, in his praise,
The prompt fidelity of all his ways:
Till in a vacant hour, the Dinner done,
One day he joking cried, ‘Come here, my Son!
‘'Tis pity that so good a Lad as you
‘Beneath my roof should bring disorders new!
‘But here's my Phœbe,—once so light and airy
‘She'd trip along the passage like a Fairy,—
‘Has lost her swiftness quite, since here you came:—
‘And yet;—I can't perceive the Girl is lame!
‘The obstacles she meets with still fall thicker:
‘Old as I am I'd turn a corner quicker.’

The Youth blush'd deep; and Phœbe hung her head

The good Man smil'd, and thus again he said:
‘Not that I deem it matter of surprise,
‘That you should love to gaze at Phœbe's eyes;
‘But be explicit, Boy; and deal with honour:
‘I feel my happiness depend upon her.
‘When here you came you'd sorrow on your brow;
‘And I've forborne to question you till now.
‘First, then, say what thou art.’ He instant bow'd,
And thus, in Phœbe's hearing, spoke aloud:

‘Thus far experienc'd, Sir, in you I find
‘All that is generous, fatherly, and kind;
‘And while you look for proofs of real worth,
‘You'll not regard the meanness of my birth,
‘When, pennyless and sad, you met with me,
‘I'd just escap'd the dangers of the Sea;
‘Resolv'd to try my fortune on the shore:
‘To get my bread; and trust the waves no more:

‘Having no Home, nor Parents, left behind,
‘I'd all my fortune, all my Friends, to find.
‘Keen disappointment wounded me that morn:
‘For, trav'lling near the spot where I was born,
‘I at the well-known door where I was bred,
‘Inquir'd who still was living, who was dead:
‘But first, and most, I sought with anxious fear,
‘Tldings to gain of her who once was dear;
‘A Girl, with all the meekness of the dove,
‘The constant sharer of my childhood's love;
‘She call'd me, Brother:—which I heard with pride,
‘Though now suspect we are not so allied.
‘Thus much I learnt; (no more the churls would say;)
‘She went to service, and she ran away,
‘And scandal added’—‘Hold!’ the Miller cried,
And, in an instant, stood at Phœbe's side;
For he observ'd, while list'ning to the tale,
Her spirits faulter'd, and her cheeks turn'd pale;

Whilst her clasp'd hands descended to her knee,
She sinking whisper'd forth, “O God, 'tis he!”
The good Man, though he guess'd the pleasing truth,
Was far too busy to inform the Youth;
But stirr'd himself amain to aid his Wife,
Who soon restor'd the trembler back to life.
Awhile insensible she still appear'd;
But, “O my Brother,” was distinctly heard:
Th'astonish'd Youth now held her to his breast;
And tears and kisses soon explain'd the rest.

Past deeds now from each tongue alternate fell.
For news of dearest import both could tell.
Fondly, from childhood's tears to youth's full prime,
They match'd the incidents of jogging time;
And prov'd that, when with Tyranny opprest,
Poor Phœbe groan'd with wounds and broken rest,
George felt no less: was harass'd and forlorn;
A rope's end follow'd him both night and morn.

And in that very storm when Phœbe fled,
When the rain drench'd her yet unshelter'd head;
That very Storm he on the Ocean brav'd,
The Vessel founder'd, and the Boy was sav'd!
Mysterious Heav'n!—and O with what delight—
She told the happy issue of her flight:
To his charm'd heart a living picture drew;
And gave to hospitality its due!
The list'ning Host observ'd the gentle Pair;
And ponder'd on the means that brought them there:
Convinc'd, while unimpeach'd their Virtue stood,
'Twas Heav'n's high Will that he should do them good.

But now the anxious Dame, impatient grown,
Demanded what the Youth had heard, or known,
Whereon to ground those doubts but just exprest;—
Doubts, which must interest the feeling breast;
‘Her Brother wert thou, George?—how; prithee say
‘Canst thou forego, or cast that name away?’

‘No living proofs have I,’ the Youth reply'd,
‘That we by closest ties are not allied;
‘But in my memory live, and ever will,
‘A mother's dying words—I hear them still:
‘She said, to one who watch'd her parting breath,
“Don't separate the Children at my death,
“They're not both mine: but”—here the scene was ‘clos'd,
‘She died; and left us helpless and expos'd;
‘Nor Time hath thrown, nor Reason's opening power,
‘One friendly ray on that benighted hour.’

Ne'er did the Chieftains of a Warring State
Hear from the Oracle their half-told fate
With more religious fear, or more suspense,
Than Phœbe now endur'd:—for every sense
Became absorb'd in this unwelcome theme,
Nay, every meditation, every dream,

Th' inexplicable sentence held to view,
“They're not both mine,” was every morning new:
For, till this hour, the Maid had never prov'd
How far she was enthrall'd, how much she lov'd:
In that fond character he first appear'd;
His kindness charm'd her, and his smiles endear'd:
This dubious mystery the passion crost;
Her peace was wounded, and her Lover lost.
For George, with all his resolution strove
To check the progress of his growing love;
Or, if he e'er indulg'd a tender kiss,
Th' unravell'd secret robb'd him of his bliss.
Health's foe, Suspense, so irksome to be borne,
An ever-piercing and retreating thorn,
Hung on their Hearts, when Nature bade them rise,
And stole Content's bright ensign from their eyes.

The good folks saw the change, and griev'd to find
These troubles labouring in Phœbe's mind;

They lov'd them both; and with one voice propos'd
The only means whence Truth might be disclos'd;
That, when the Summer Months should shrink the rill,
And scarce its languid stream would turn the Mill,
When the Spring broods, and Pigs, and Lambs, were rear'll,
(A time when George and Phœbe might be spar'd,)
Their birth-place they should visit once again,
To try with joint endeavours to obtain
From Record, or Tradition, what might be
To chain, or set their chain'd affections free:
Affinity beyond all doubts to prove;
Or clear the road for Nature and for Love.

Never, till now, did Phœbe count the hours,
Or think May long, or wish away its flowers;
With mutual sighs both fann'd the wings of Time;
As we climb Hills and gladden as we climb,

And reach at last the distant promis'd seat,
Casting the glowing landscape at our feet.
Oft had the Morning Rose with dew been wet,
And oft the journeying Sun in glory set,
Beyond the willow'd meads of vigorous grass,
The steep green hill, and woods they were to pass;
When now the day arriv'd: Impatience reign'd;
And George,—by trifling obstacles detain'd,—
His bending Blackthorn on the threshold prest,
Survey'd the windward clouds, and hop'd the best.
Phœbe, attir'd with every modest grace,
While Health and Beauty revell'd in her face,
Came forth; but soon evinc'd an absent mind,
For, back she turn'd for something left behind;
Again the same, till George grew tir'd of home,
And peevishly exclaim'd, “Come, Phœbe, come.”
Another hindrance yet he had to feel;
As from the door they tripp'd with nimble heel,

A poor old Man, foot-founder'd and alone,
Thus urgent spoke, in Trouble's genuine Tone:
“My pretty Maid, if happiness you seek,
“May disappointment never fade your cheek!—
“Yours be the joy;—yet, feel another's woe:
“O leave some little gift before you go.”
His words struck home; and back she turn'd again,
(The ready friend of indigence and pain,)
To banish hunger from his shatter'd frame;
And close behind her, Lo, the Miller came,
With jug in hand, and cried, “George, why such haste?
“Here; take a draught; and let that Soldier taste.”
“Thanks for your bounty, Sir;” the Veteran said;
Threw down his Wallet, and made bare his head;
And straight began, tho' mix'd with doubts and fears,
Th' unprefac'd History of his latter years.
“I cross'd th' Atlantic with my Comrades brave,
“Where sickness sweeps whole regiments to the grave:

“Yet I've escap'd; and bear my arms no more;
“My age discharg'd me when I came on shore.
“My Wife, I've heard,”—and here he wip'd his eyes,—
“In the cold corner of the Church-yard lies.
“By her consent it was I left my home:
“Employment fail'd, and poverty was come;
“The Bounty tempted me;—she had it all:
“We parted; and I've seen my betters fall.
“Yet, as I'm spar'd, though in this piteous case,
“I'm trav'lling homeward to my native place;
“Though should I reach that dear remember'd spot,
“Perhaps Old Grainger will be quite forgot.”

All eyes beheld young George with wonder start:
Strong were the secret bodings of his heart;
Yet not indulg'd: for he with doubts survey'd
By turns the Stranger, and the lovely Maid.

“Had you no Children?”—“Yes, young Man, I'd “two:
“A Boy, if still he lives, as old as you:
“Yet not my own; but likely so to prove;
“Though but the pledge of an unlawful Love:
“I cherish'd him, to hide a Sister's shame:
“He shar'd my best affections, and my name.
“But why, young folks, should I detain you here?
“Go: and may blessings wait upon your cheer,
“I too will travel on;—perhaps to find
“The only treasure that I left behind.
“Such kindly thoughts my fainting hopes revive.
“Phœbe, my Cherub, art thou still alive?”

Could Nature hold!—Could youthful Love forbear!
George clasp'd the wond'ring Maid, and whisper'd, ‘There!
‘You're mine for ever!—O, sustam the rest;
‘And hush the tumult of your throbbing breast.

Then to the Soldier turn'd, with manly pride,
And fondly led his long-intended Bride.
‘Here, see your Child: nor wish a sweeter flower.
‘'Tis George that speaks; thou'lt bless the happy ‘hour!—
‘Nay, be compos'd; for all will yet be well,
‘Though here our history's too long to tell.’—

A long-lost Father found, the mystery clear'd,
What mingled transports in her face appear'd!
The gazing Veteran stood with hands uprais'd—
‘Art thou indeed my Child! then, God be prais'd.’
O'er his rough cheeks the tears profusely spread:
Such as fools say become not Men to shed;
Past hours of bliss, regenerated charms,
Rose, when he felt his Daughter in his arms:
So tender was the scene, the generous Dame
Wept, as she told of Phœbe's virtuous fame,

And the good Host, with gestures passing strange,
Abstracted seem'd through fields of joy to range:
Rejoicing that his favour'd roof should prove
Virtue's asylum, and the nurse of Love;
Rejoicing that to him the task was given,
While his full Soul was mounting up to Heav'n.

But now, as from a dream his Reason sprung,
And heartiest greetings dwelt upon his tongue:
The sounding Kitchen floor at once receiv'd
The happy group, with all their fears reliev'd;
“Soldier,” he cried, “you've found your Girl; 'tis “true:
“But suffer me to be a Father too;
“For, never Child that blest a Parent's knee,
“Could show more duty than she has to me,
“Strangely she came; Affliction chas'd her hard:
“I pitied her;—and this is my reward!

“Here sit you down; recount your perils o'er.
“Henceforth be this your home; and grieve no “more:
“Plenty hath shower'd her dewdrops on my head;
“Care visits not my Table, nor my Bed.
“My heart's warm wishes thus then I fulfil:
“My Dame and I can live without the Mill:
“George, take the whole; I'll near you still remain,
“To guide your judgment in the choice of grain:
“In Virtue's path commence your prosperous life;
“And from my hand receive your worthy Wife.
“Rise, Phœbe; rise, my Girl!—kneel not to me;
“But to that Pow'r who interpos'd for thee.
“Integrity hath mark'd your favourite Youth;
“Fair budding Honour, Constancy, and Truth:
“Go to his arms;—and may unsullied joys
“Bring smiling round me, rosy Girls and Boys!

“I'll love them for thy sake. And may your days
“Glide on, as glides the Stream that never stays;
“Bright as whose shingled bed, till life's decline,
“May all your Worth, and all your Virtues shine!”

This village and the poor of this neighbourhood know what it is to have possest such a blessing, and see at this moment what it is to lose it by death. C. L. Troston 18th of September 1801

A Maxim which all ought to remember. C. L.

THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS.

I

Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again:
Companion of the lonely hour!
Spring thirty times hath fed with rain
And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower,
Since thou hast stood
In frame of wood,
On Chest or Window by my side:
At every Birth still thou wert near,
Still spoke thine admonitions clear—
And, when my Husband died,

II

I've often watch'd thy streaming sand
And seen the growing Mountain rise,
And often found Life's hopes to stand
On props as weak in Wisdom's eyes:
Its conic crown
Still sliding down,
Again heap'd up, then down again;
The sand above more hollow grew,
Like days and years still filt'ring through,
And mingling joy and pain.

III

While thus I spin and sometimes sing
(For now and then my heart will glow)
Thou measur'st Time's expanding wing:
By thee the noontide hour I know
Though silent thou,
Still shalt thou flow,

And jog along thy destin'd way:
But when I glean the sultry fields,
When Earth her yellow Harvest yields,
Thou get'st a Holiday.

IV

Steady as Truth, on either end
Thy daily task performing well,
Thou'rt Meditation's constant friend,
And strik'st the Heart without a Bell:
Come, lovely May.
Thy lengthen'd day
Shall gild once more my native plain;
Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine flower;—
Companion of the lonely hour,
I'll turn thee up again.

MARKET-NIGHT.

I

‘O Winds, howl not so long and loud;
‘Nor with your vengeance arm the snow:
‘Bear hence each heavy-loaded cloud:
‘And let the twinkling Star-beams glow.

II

‘Now sweeping floods rush down the slope,
‘Wide scattering ruin—Stars, shine soon!
‘No other light my Love can hope;
‘Midnight will want the joyous Moon.

III

‘O guardian Spirits!—Ye that dwell
‘Where woods, and pits, and hollow ways,
‘The lone night-trav'ller's fancy swell
‘With fearful tales, of older days,—

IV

‘Press round him—guide his willing steed
‘Through darkness, dangers, currents, snows;
‘Wait where, from shelt'ring thickets freed,
‘The dreary Heath's rude whirlwind blows;

V

‘That o'er the Hill with furious sweep
‘Now writhes, now rends the shivering tree—
‘Sure-footed beast, thy road thou'lt keep:
‘Nor storm nor darkness startles thee!

VI

‘O blest assurance, (trusty steed,)
‘To thee the buried road is known:
‘Home, all the spur thy footsteps need,
‘When loose the frozen rein is thrown.

VII

‘Between the roaring blasts that shake
‘The naked Elder at the door,
‘Though not one prattler to me speak,
‘Their sleeping sighs delight me more.

VIII

‘Sound is their rest:—they little know
‘What pain, what cold, their Father feels:
‘But dream, perhaps, they see him now,
‘While each the promis'd Orange peels.

IX

‘Would it were so!—the fire burns bright,
‘And on the warming trencher gleams;
‘In expectation's raptur'd sight
‘How precious his arrival seems!

X

‘I'll look abroad!—'tis piercing cold!—
‘How the bleak wind assails his breast!
‘Yet there the parting clouds unfold;
‘The storm is verging o'er the West.

XI

‘There shines a Star!—O welcome Sight!—
‘Through the thin vapours bright'ning still!
‘Yet, 'twas beneath the fairest night
‘The murd'rer stain'd yon lonely Hill.

XII

‘Mercy, kind Heav'n! such thoughts dispel!
‘No voice, no foot is heard around!
‘Perhaps he's near the haunted well!
‘But Dapple knows each inch of ground.

XIII

‘Distressing hour! uncertain fate!
‘O Mercy, Mercy, guide him home!—
‘Hark!—then I heard the distant gate,—
‘Repeat it, Echo; quickly, come!

XIV

‘One minute now will ease my fears—
‘Or, still more wretched must I be?
‘No: surely Heaven has spar'd our tears
‘I see him, cloth'd in snow;—'tis he.—

XV

‘Where have you stay'd? put down your load.
‘How have you borne the storm, the cold?
‘What horrors did I not forbode—
‘That Beast is worth his weight in gold.’

XVI

Thus spoke the joyful Wife;—then ran
In grateful steams to hide her head:
Dapple was hous'd, the weary Man
With joy glanc'd o'er the Children's bed.

XVII

‘What, all asleep!—so best; he cried:
‘O what a night I've travell'd through!
‘Unseen, unheard, I might have died;
‘But Heaven has brought me safe to you.

XVIII

‘Dear Partner of my nights and days,
‘That smile becomes thee!—Let us then
‘Learn, though mishap may cross our ways,
‘It is not ours to reckon when.’

THE FAKENHAM GHOST,

A BALLAD.

I

The Lawns were dry in Euston Park;
(Here Truth inspires my Tale)
The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over Hill and Dale

II

Benighted was an ancient Dame,
And fearful haste she made
To gain the vale of Fakenham,
And hail its Willow shade.

III

Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But follow'd faster still;
And echo'd to the darksome Copse
That whisper'd on the Hill;

IV

Where clam'rous Rooks, yet scarcely hush'd,
Bespoke a peopled shade;
And many a wing the foliage brush'd,
And hov'ring circuits made.

V

The dappled herd of grazing Deer
That sought the Shades by day,
Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the Stranger way.

VI

Darker it grew; and darker fears
Came o'er her troubled mind;
When now, a short quick step she hears
Come patting close behind.

VII

She turn'd; it stopt!—nought could she see
Upon the gloomy plain!
But, as she strove the Sprite to flee,
She heard the same again.

VIII

Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame:
For, where the path was bare,
The trotting Ghost kept on the same!
She mutter'd many a pray'r.

IX

Yet once again, amidst her fright
She tried what sight could do;
When through the cheating glooms of night,
A monster stood in view.

X

Regardless of whate'er she felt,
It follow'd down the plain!
She own'd her sins, and down she knelt,
And said her pray'rs again.

XI

Then on she sped: and Hope grew strong,
The white park-gate in view;
Which pushing hard, so long it swung
That Ghost and all pass'd through.

XII

Loud fell the gate against the post!
Her heart-strings like to crack:
For, much she fear'd the grisly Ghost
Would leap upon her back.

XIII

Still on, pat, pat, the Goblin went,
As it had done before:—
Her strength and resolution spent,
She fainted at the door.

XIV

Out came her Husband, much surpris'd:
Out came her Daughter dear:
Good-natur'd Souls! all unadvis'd
Of what they had to fear.

XV

The Candle's gleam pierc'd through the night,
Some short space o'er the green;
And there the little trotting Sprite
Distinctly might be seen.

XVI

An Ass's Foal had lost its Dam
Within the spacious Park;
And simple as the playful Lamb,
Had follow'd in the dark.

XVII

No Goblin he; no imp of sin:
No crimes had ever known.
They took the shaggy stranger in,
And rear'd him as their own.

XVIII

His little hoofs would rattle round
Upon the Cottage floor:
The Matron learn'd to love the sound
That frighten'd her before.

XIX

A favorite the Ghost became;
And, 'twas his fate to thrive:
And long he liv'd and spread his fame,
And kept the joke alive.

XX

For many a laugh went through the Vale;
And some conviction too:—
Each thought some other Goblin tale,
Perhaps, was just as true.

This Ballad is founded on a fact. The circumstance occurred perhaps long before I was born; but is still related by my Mother, and some of the oldest inhabitants in that part of the country R. B.

THE FRENCH MARINER.

A BALLAD.

I

An old French Mariner am I,
Whom Time hath render'd poor and gray:
Hear, conquering Britons, ere I die,
What anguish prompts me thus to say.

II

I've rode o'er many a dreadful wave,
I've seen the reeking blood descend:
I've heard the last groans of the brave;—
The shipmate dear, the steady Friend.

III

'Twas when De Grasse the battle join'd,
And struck, on April's fatal morn:
I left three smiling boys behind,
And saw my Country's Lily torn.

IV

There, as I brav'd the storms of Fate,
Dead in my arms my Brother fell;
Here sits forlorn his widow'd Mate,
Who weeps whene'er the tale I tell.

V

Thy reign, sweet Peace, was o'er too soon;
War, piecemeal, robs me of my joy:
For, on the blood-stain'd first of June
Death took my eldest favourite Boy.

VI

The other two enrag'd arose,
‘Our Country claims our lives,’ they said.
With them I lost my Soul's repose,
That fatal hour my last hope fled.

VII

With Brueys the proud Nile they sought:
Where one in ling'ring wounds expir'd;
While yet the other bravely fought
The Orient's magazine was fir'd.

VIII

And must I mourn my Country's shame?
And envious curse the conquering Foe?
No more I feel that thirst of Fame;—
All I can feel is private woe.

IX

E'en all the joy that Vict'ry brings,
(Her bellowing Guns, and flaming pride)
Cold, momentary comfort flings
Around where weeping Friends reside.

X

Whose blighted bud no Sun shall cheer,
Whose Lamp of Life no longer shine:
Some Parent, Brother, Child, most dear,
Who ventur'd, and who died like mine.

XI

Proud crested Fiend, the World's worst foe,
Ambition; canst thou boast one deed,
Whence no unsightly horrors flow,
Nor private peace is seen to bleed.

XII

Ah! why do these old Eyes remain
To see succeeding mornings rise!
My Wife is dead, my Children slain,
And Poverty is all my prize.

XIII

Yet shall not poor enfeebled Age
Breathe forth revenge;—but kneel and pray,
O God, who seest the Battle's rage,
Take from men's Hearts that rage away.

XIV

From the vindictive tongue of Strife,
Bid Hatred and false Glory flee;
That babes may meet advancing life,
Nor feel the woes that light on me.

DOLLY

“Ingenuous trust, and confidence of Love.”

I

The Bat began with giddy wing
His circuit round the Shed, the Tree;
And clouds of dancing Gnats to sing
A summer-night's serenity.

II

Darkness crept slowly o'er the East!
Upon the Barn-roof watch'd the Cat;
Sweet breath'd the ruminating Beast
At rest where Dolly musing sat.

III

A simple Maid, who could employ
The silent lapse of Evening mild,
And lov'd its solitary joy:
For Dolly was Reflection's child.

IV

He who had pledg'd his word to be
Her life's dear guardian, far away,
The flow'r of Yeoman Cavalry,
Bestrode a Steed with trappings gay.

V

And thus from Memory's treasur'd sweets,
And thus from Love's pure fount she drew
That peace, which busy care defeats,
And bids our pleasures bloom anew.

VI

Six weeks of absence have I borne
Since Henry took his fond farewell:
The charms of that delightful morn
My tongue could thus for ever tell.

VII

He at my Window whistling loud,
Arous'd my lightsome heart to go:
Day, conqu'ring, climb'd from cloud to cloud;
The fields all wore a purple glow.

VIII

We stroll'd the bordering flow'rs among:
One hand the Bridle held behind;
The other round my waist was flung:
Sure never Youth spoke half so kind!

IX

The rising Lark I could but hear;
And jocund seem'd the song to be:
But sweeter sounded in my ear,
“Will Dolly still be true to me!”

X

From the rude Dock my skirt had swept
A fringe of clinging burs so green;
Like them our hearts still closer crept,
And hook'd a thousand holds unseen.

XI

High o'er the road each branching bough
Its globes of silent dew had shed;
And on the pure-wash'd sand below
The dimpling drops around had spread.

XII

The sweet-brier op'd its pink-ey'd rose,
And gave its fragrance to the gale;
Though modest flow'rs may sweets disclose,
More sweet was Henry's earnest tale.

XIII

He seem'd, methought, on that dear morn,
To pour out all his heart to me;
As if, the separation borne,
The coming hours would joyless be.

XIV

A bank rose high beside the way,
And full against the morning Sun;
Of heav'nly blue the violets gay
His hand invited one by one.

XV

The posy with a smile he gave;
I saw his meaning in his eyes:
The wither'd treasure still I have;
My bosom holds the fragrant prize.

XVI

With his last kiss he would have vow'd;
But blessings crouding fore'd their way.
Then mounted he his Courser proud;
His time was gone, he could not stay.

XVII

Then first I felt the parting pang;—
Sure the worst pang the Lover feels!
His Horse unruly from me sprang,
The pebbles flew beneath his heels;

XVIII

Then down the road his vigour tried,
His rider gazing, gazing still;
“My dearest, I'll be true,” he cried:—
And, if he lives, I'm sure he will.

LINES, OCCASIONED BY A VISIT TO Whittlebury Forest, Northamptonshire,

In August, 1800.

ADDRESSED TO MY CHILDREN.

I

Genius of the Forest Shades!
Lend thy pow'r, and lend thine ear
A Stranger trod thy lonely glades,
Amidst thy dark and bounding Deer,
Inquiring Childhood claims the verse,
O let them not inquire in vain;
Be with me while I thus rehearse
The glories of thy Sylvan Reign.

II

Thy Dells by wint'ry currents worn,
Secluded haunts, how dear to me!
From all but Nature's converse borne.
No ear to hear, no eye to see.
Their honour'd leaves the green Oaks rear'd,
And crown'd the upland's graceful swell;
While answering through the vale was heard
Each distant Heifer's tinkling bell.

III

Hail, Greenwood shades, that stretching far,
Defy e'en Summer's noontide pow'r,
When August in his burning Car
Withholds the Cloud, withholds the Show'r.
The deep-ton'd Low from either Hill,
Down hazel aisles and arches green;
(The Herd's rude tracks from rill to rill)
Roar'd echoing through the solemn scene.

IV

From my charm'd heart the numbers sprung,
Though Birds had ceas'd the choral lay:
I pour'd wild raptures from my tongue,
And gave delicious tears their way.
Then, darker shadows seeking still,
Where human foot had seldom stray'd,
I read aloud to every Hill
Sweet Emma's Love, “the Nut-brown Maid.”

V

Shaking his matted mane on high,
The gazing Colt would raise his head;
Or, tim'rous Doe would rushing fly,
And leave to me her grassy bed:
Where, as the azure sky appear'd
Through Bow'rs of every varying form,
'Midst the deep gloom methought I heard
The daring progress of the storm.

VI

How would each sweeping pond'rous bough
Resist, when straight the Whirlwind cleaves,
Dashing in strength'ning eddies through
A roaring wilderness of leaves!
How would the prone descending show'r
From the green Canopy rebound!
How would the lowland torrents pour!
How deep the pealing thunder sound!

VII

But Peace was there: no lightnings blaz'd:—
No clouds obscur'd the face of heav'n:
Down each green op'ning while I gaz'd
My thoughts to home, and you, were giv'n.
O tender minds! in life's gay morn
Some clouds must dim your coming day;
Yet, bootless pride and falsehood scorn,
And peace like this shall cheer your way.

VIII

Now, at the dark Wood's stately side,
Well pleas'd I met the Sun again;
Here fleeting Fancy travell'd wide!
My seat was destin'd to the Main:
For, many an Oak lay stretch'd at length,
Whose trunks (with bark no longer sheath'd)
Had reach'd their full meridian strength
Before your Father's Father breath'd!

IX

Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave,
And many a dreadful storm defy;
Then groaning o'er the adverse wave
Bring home the flag of victory.
Go, then, proud Oaks: we meet no more!
Go, grace the scenes to me denied,
The white Cliffs round my native shore,
And the loud Ocean's swelling tide.

X

‘Genius of the Forest Shades,’
Sweet, from the heights of thy domain,
When the grey ev'ning shadow fades,
To view the Country's golden grain!
To view the gleaming Village Spire
'Midst distant groves unknown to me;
Groves that, grown bright in borrow'd fire,
Bow o'er the peopled Vales to thee!

XI

Where was thy Elfin train, that play
Round Wake's huge Oak, their favorite tree,
Dancing the twilight hours away?
Why were they not reveal'd to me!
Yet, smiling Fairies left behind,
Affection brought you all to view;
To love and tenderness resign'd,
My heart heav'd many a sigh for you.

XII

When Morning still unclouded rose,
Refresh'd with sleep and joyous dreams,
Where fruitful fields with woodlands close,
I trac'd the births of various streams.
From beds of Clay, here creeping rills
Unseen to parent Ouse would steal;
Or, gushing from the northward Hills,
Would glitter through Toves' winding dale.

XIII

But ah! ye cooling springs, farewell!
Herds, I no more your freedom share;
But long my grateful tongue shall tell
What brought your gazing stranger there.
‘Genius of the Forest Shades,
‘Lend thy power, and lend thine ear;’
Let dreams still lengthen thy long glades,
And bring thy peace and silence here.

101

SONG FOR A HIGHLAND DROVER RETURNING FROM ENGLAND.

I

Now fare-thee-well, England; no further I'll roam;
But follow my shadow that points the way home:
Your gay southern Shores shall not tempt me to stay;
For my Maggy's at Home, and my Children at play!
'Tis this makes my Bonnet sit light on my brow,
Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow.

102

II

Farewell, Mountaineers! my companions, adieu;
Soon, many long miles when I'm sever'd from you,
I shall miss your white Horns on the brink of the burn,
And o'er the rough Heaths, where you'll never return;
But in brave English pastures you cannot complain,
While your Drover speeds back to his Maggy again.

III

O Tweed! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green vales,
More than life, more than Love my tir'd Spirit inhales;
There Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view,
With her bare-footed Lasses and Mountains so blue;
To the mountains away; my heart bounds like the hind;
For home is so sweet, and my Maggy so kind.

103

IV

As day after day I still follow my course,
And in fancy trace back every Stream to its source,
Hope cheers me up hills, where the road lies before,
O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of wild Moor;
The keen polar Star nightly rising to view;
But Maggy's my Star, just as steady and true.

V

O Ghosts of my Fathers! O heroes, look down!
Fix my wandering thoughts on your deeds of renown,
For the glory of Scotland reigns warm in my breast,
And fortitude grows both from toil and from rest;
May your deeds and your worth be for ever in view,
And may Maggy bear sons not unworthy of you.

104

VI

Love, why do you urge me, so weary and poor?
I cannot step faster, I cannot do more:
I've pass'd silver Tweed; e'en the Tay flows behind:
Yet fatigue I'll disdain;—my reward I shall find;
Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize;
And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue eyes.

VII

She'll watch to the southward;—perhaps she will sigh,
That the way is so long, and the Mountains so high;
Perhaps some huge rock in the dusk she may see,
And will say in her fondness, “that surely is he!”
Good Wife, you're deceiv'd; I'm still far from my home;
Go, sleep, my dear Maggy,—to-morrow I'll come.

105

A WORD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES.

I

When tender Rose-trees first receive,
On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower;
Hope's gayest pictures we believe,
And anxious watch each coming flower.

II

Then, if beneath the genial Sun
That spreads abroad the full-blown May,
Two infant Stems the rest out-run,
Their buds the first to meet the day,

106

III

With joy their op'ning tints we view,
While morning's precious moments fly.
My pretty Maids, 'tis thus with you,
The fond admiring gazer, I.

IV

Preserve, sweet Buds, where'er you be,
The richest gem that decks a Wife;
The charm of female modesty;
And let sweet Music give it life.

V

Still may the favoring Muse be found:
Still circumspect the paths ye tread:
Plant moral truths in Fancy's ground;
And meet old Age without a dread.

107

VI

Yet, ere that comes, while yet ye quaff
The cup of Health without a pain,
I'll shake my grey hairs when you laugh,
And, when you sing, be young again.

Both the young Ladies had addressed to me a few complimentary lines, (and I am sorry that those of the elder sister were never in my possession;) in return for which I sent the above. It was received on the day on which the younger completed her ninth year. Surely it cannot be ascribed to vanity, if, in gratitude to a most amiable family, I here preserve verbatim an effort of a child nine years old. I have the more pleasure in doing it, because I know them to be her own.—R. B.

“Accept, dear Bard, the Muse's genuine thought,
“And take not ill the tribute of my heart:—
“For thee the laureate wreath of praise I'll bind;
“None that have read thy commendable mind
“Can let it pass unnotic'd—nor can I—
“For by thy lays I know thy sympathy.”

F. P

109

ON HEARING OF THE TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FARMER'S BOY INTO LATIN;

BY THE REV. MR. C—

Hey, Giles! in what new garb art dress'd?
For Lads like you methinks a bold one;
I'm glad to see thee so caress'd;
But, hark ye!—don't despise your old one.
Thou'rt not the first by many a Boy
Who've found abroad good friends to own'em;
Then, in such Coats have shown their joy,
E'en their own Fathers have not known em.

111

NANCY.

A SONG

I

You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume
That you cherish a secret affection for me?
When we see the Flow'rs bud, don't we look for the Bloom?
Then, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee.

II

When we Young Men with pastimes the Twilight beguile,
I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy:
And observe, that whatever occasions the smile,
You give me a glance; but provokingly coy.

112

III

Last month, when wild strawberries pluckt in the grovs
Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had strung;
You gave me the choicest; I hop'd 'twas for Love;
And I told you my hopes while the Nightingale sung.

IV

Remember the Viper:—'twas close at your feet,
How you started, and threw yourself into my arms;
Not a Strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet
As the lips which I kiss'd to subdue your alarms.

V

As I pull'd down the clusters of Nuts for my Fair,
What a blow I receiv'd from a strong bending bough;
Though Lucy and other gay lasses were there,
Not one of them show'd such compassion as yon.

113

VI

And was it compassion?—by Heaven 'twas more!
A telltale betrays you;—that blush on your cheek.
Then come, dearest Maid, all your trifling give o'er,
And whisper what Candour will teach you to speak

VII

Can you stain my fair Honour with one broken vow?
Can you say that I've ever occasion'd a pain?
On Truth's honest base let your tenderness grow;
I swear to be faithful, again and again.

115

ROSY HANNAH.

I

A Spring, o'erhung with many a flower,
The grey sand dancing in its bed,
Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bower,
Sent forth its waters near my head:
A rosy Lass approach'd my view;
I caught her blue eye's modest beam:
The stranger nodded “how d'ye do!”
And leap'd across the infant stream.

II

The water heedless pass'd away:
With me her glowing image stay'd:
I strove, from that auspicious day,
To meet and bless the lovely Maid.

116

I met her where beneath our feet
Through downy Moss the wild Thyme grew;
Nor Moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet,
Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

III

I met her where the dark Woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale Moon rising gave
New glories to her clouded train.
From her sweet cot upon the Moor
Our plighted vows to Heaven are flown:
Truth made me welcome at her door,
And rosy Hannah is my own.

117

SONG. THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER.

I

Rover, awake! the grey Cock crows!
Come, shake your coat and go with me!
High in the East the green Hill glows;
And glory crowns our shelt'ring Tree.
The Sheep expect us at the fold:
My faithful Dog, let's haste away,
And in his earliest beams behold,
And hail, the source of cheerful day.

118

II

Half his broad Orb o'erlooks the Hill;
And, darting down the valley flies,
At every casement welcome still,
The golden summons of the skies.
Go, fetch my Staff; and o'er the dews
Let Echo waft thy gladsome voice.
Shall we a cheerful note refuse
When rising Morn proclaims, “rejoice.”

III

Now then we'll start; and thus I'll sling
Our store, a trivial load to bear:
Yet, ere night comes, should hunger sting,
I'll not encroach on Rover's share.
The fresh breeze bears its sweets along;
The Lark but chides us while we stay:
Soon shall the Vale repeat my song;
Go brush before, away, away.

119

HUNTING SONG.

I

Ye darksome Woods where Echo dwells,
Where every bud with freedom swells
To meet the glorious day:
The morning breaks; again rejoice;
And with old Ringwood's well-known voice
Bid tuneful Echo play.

II

We come, ye Groves, ye Hills, we come:
The vagrant Fox shall hear his doom,
And dread our jovial train.
The shrill Horn sounds, the courser flies,
While every Sportsman joyful cries,
“There's Ringwood's voice again.”

120

III

Ye Meadows, hail the coming throng,
Ye peaceful Streams that wind along,
Repeat the Hark-away:
Far o'er the Downs, ye Gales that sweep,
The daring Oak that crowns the steep,
The roaring peal convey.

IV

The chiming notes of cheerful Hounds,
Hark! how the hollow Dale resounds;
The sunny Hills how gay.
But where's the note, brave Dog, like thine
Then urge the Steed, the chorus join,
'Tis Ringwood leads the way.

121

LUCY.

A SONG.

I

Thy favourite Bird is soaring still:
My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale;
The Stream's let loose, and from the Mill
All silent comes the balmy gale;
Yet, so lightly on its way,
Seems to whisper, “Holiday.”

II

The pathway flowers that bending meet,
And give the Meads their yellow hue,
The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet
Reserve their fragrance all for you.
Why then, Lucy, why delay?
Let us share the Holiday.

122

III

Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid,
Are with unfeigned rapture seen,
To Beauty be the Homage paid;
Come, claim the triumph of the Green.
Here's my Hand, come, come away;
Share the merry Holiday.

IV

A promise too my Lucy made,
(And shall my heart its claim resign?)
That ere May-flowers again should fade,
Her heart and hand should both be mine.
Hark'ye, Lucy, this is May;
Love shall crown our Holiday.

123

WINTER SONG.

I

Dear Boy, throw that Icicle down,
And sweep this deep snow from the door;
Old Winter comes on with a frown;
A terrible frown for the poor.
In a Season so rude and forlorn,
How can age, how can infancy bear
The silent neglect and the scorn
Of those who have plenty to spare?

II

Fresh broach'd is my Cask of old Ale,
Well-tim'd now the frost is set in;
Here's Job come to tell us a tale,
We'll make him at home to a pin.

124

While my Wife and I bask o'er the fire,
The roll of the Seasons will prove,
That Time may diminish desire,
But cannot extinguish true love.

III

O the pleasures of neighbourly chat,
If you can but keep scandal away,
To learn what the world has been at,
And what the great Orators say;
Though the Wind through the creviees sing,
And Hail down the chimney rebound;
I'm happier than many a king
While the Bellows blows Bass to the sound.

IV

Abundance was never my lot:
But out of the trifle that's given,
That no curse may alight on my Cot,
I'll distribute the bounty of Heav'n;

125

The fool and the slave gather wealth:
But if I add nought to my store,
Yet while I keep conscience in health,
I've a Mine that will never grow poor.

127

WILD FLOWERS;

OR, PASTORAL AND LOCAL POETRY.

129

DEDICATION. TO MY ELDEST SON.

131

ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES.

A FAMILIAR BALLAD.

I

“Well! I'm determin'd; that's enough:—
“Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones,
“I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough,
“To go and court the Widow Jones.

II

“Our master talks of stable-room,
“And younger horses on his grounds;
“'Tis easy to foresee thy doom,
“Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds.

132

III

“But could I win the widow's hand,
“I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee;
“For thou upon the best of land
“Should'st feed, and live, and die with me.

IV

“And must the pole-axe lay thee low?
“And will they pick thy poor old bones?
“No—hang me if it shall be so,—
“If I can win the Widow Jones.”

V

Twirl went his stick; his curly pate
A bran-new hat uplifted bore;
And Abner, as he leapt the gate,
Had never look'd so gay before.

133

VI

And every spark of love reviv'd
That had perplex'd him long ago,
When busy folks and fools contriv'd
To make his Mary answer—no.

VII

But whether, freed from recent vows,
Her heart had back to Abner flown,
And mark'd him for a second spouse,
In truth is not exactly known.

VIII

Howbeit, as he came in sight,
She turn'd her from the garden stile,
And downward look'd with pure delight,
With half a sigh and half a smile.

134

IX

She heard his sounding step behind,
The blush of joy crept up her cheek,
As cheerly floated on the wind,
“Hoi! Mary Jones—what won't you speak?”

X

Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,
She turn'd, but found her courage fled;
And scolding sparrows from the eaves
Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head.

XI

Down Abner sat, with glowing heart,
Resolv'd, whatever might betide,
To speak his mind, no other art
He ever knew, or ever tried.

135

XII

And gently twitching Mary's hand,
The bench had ample room for two,
His first word made her understand
The ploughman's errand was to woo.

XIII

“My Mary—may I call thee so?
“For many a happy day we've seen,
“And if not mine, aye, years ago,
“Whose was the fault? you might have been

XIV

“All that's gone by: but I've been musing,
‘And vow'd, and hope to keep it true,
“That she shall be my own heart's choosing
“Whom I call wife.—Hey, what say you?

136

XV

“And as I drove my plough along,
“And felt the strength that's in my arm,
“Ten years, thought I, amidst my song,
“I've been head-man at Harewood farm.

XVI

“And now, my own dear Mary's free,
“Whom I have lov'd this many a day,
“Who knows but she may think on me?
“I'll go hear what she has to say.

XVII

“Perhaps that little stock of land
“She holds, but knows not how to till,
“Will suffer in the widow's hand,
“And make poor Mary poorer still.

137

XVIII

“That scrap of land, with one like her,
“How we might live! and be so blest!
“And who should Mary Jones prefer?
“Why, surely, him who loves her best!

XIX

“Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench,
“I would not idly thus intrude,”—
Mary look'd downward on the bench,
O'erpower'd by love and gratitude.

XX

And lean'd her head against the vine,
With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss,
Till Abner cried, “You must be mine,
“You must,”—and seal'd it with a kiss.

138

XXI

She talk'd of shame, and wip'd her cheek,
But what had shame with them to do.
Who nothing meant but truth to speak,
And downright honour to pursue?

XXII

His eloquence improv'd apace,
As manly pity fill'd his mind;
“You know poor Bayard; here's the case,—
“He's past his labour, old, and blind:

XXIII

“If you and I should but agree
“To settle here for good and all,
“Could you give all your heart to me,
“And grudge that poor old rogue a stall?

139

XXIV

“I'll buy him, for the dogs shall never
“Set tooth upon a friend so true;
“He'll not live long, but I for ever
“Shall know I gave the beast his due.

XXV

“'Mongst all I've known of ploughs and carts,
“And ever since I learn'd to drive,
“He was not match'd in all these parts;
“There was not such a horse alive!

XXVI

“Ready, as birds to meet the morn,
“Were all his efforts at the plough;
“Then, the mill-brook with hay or corn,
“Good creature! how he'd spatter through

140

XXVII

“He was a horse of mighty pow'r,
“Compact in frame, and strong of limb;
“Went with a chirp from hour to hour;
“Whip-cord! 'twas never made for him.

XXVIII

“I left him in the shafts behind,
“His fellows all unhook'd and gone,
“He neigh'd, and deem'd the thing unking,
“Then, starting, drew the load alone!

XXIX

“But I might talk till pitch-dark night,
“And then have something left to say;
“But, Mary, am I wrong or right,
“Or, do I throw my words away?

141

XXX

“Leave me, or take me and my horse;
“I've told thee truth, and all I know:
“Truth should breed truth; that comes of course;
“If I sow wheat, why wheat will grow.”

XXXI

“Yes, Abner, but thus soon to yield,
“Neighbours would fleer, and look behind 'em;
“Though, with a husband in the field,
“Perhaps, indeed, I should not mind 'em.

XXXII

“I've known your generous nature well;
“My first denial cost me dear;
“How this may end we cannot tell,
“But, as for Bayard, bring him here.”

142

XXXIII

“Bless thee for that,” the ploughman cried,
At once both starting from the seat,
He stood a guardian by her side,
But talk'd of home,—'twas growing late.

XXXIV

Then step for step within his arm,
She cheer'd him down the dewy way;
And no two birds upon the farm
E'er parted with more joy than they.

XXXV

What news at home? The smile he wore
One little sentence turn'd to sorrow;
An order met him at the door,
“Take Bayard to the dogs to-morrow.”

143

XXXXVI

Yes, yes, thought he; and heav'd a sigh,
Die when he will he's not your debtor:
I must obey, and he must die,—
That's if I can't contrive it better.

XXXVII

He left his Mary late at night,
And had succeeded in the main;
No sooner peep'd the morning light
But he was on the road again!

XXXVIII

Suppose she should refuse her hand?
Such thoughts will come, I know not why,
Shall I, without a wife or land,
Want an old horse? then wherefore buy?

144

XXXIX

From bush to bush, from stile to stile,
Perplex'd he trod the fallow ground,
And told his money all the while,
And weigh'd the matter round and round.

XL

“I'll borrow,” that's the best thought yet;
Mary shall save the horse's life.—
Kind-hearted wench! what, run in debt
Before I know she'll be my wife?

XLI

These women won't speak plain and free.—
Well, well, I'll keep my service still;
She has not said she'd marry me,
But yet I dare to say she will.

145

XLII

But while I take this shay-brain'd course,
And like a fool run to and fro,
Master, perhaps, may sell the horse!
Sell him!—this instant home I'll go.

XLIII

The nightly rains had drench'd the grove,
He plung'd right on with headlong pace
A man but half as much in love
Perhaps had found a cleaner place.

XLIV

The day rose fair; with team a-field,
He watch'd the farmer's cheerful brow;
And in a lucky hour reveal'd
His secret at his post, the plough.

146

XLV

And there without a whine began,
“Master, you'll give me your advice;
“I'm going to marry—if I can—
“And want old Bayard; what's his price?

XLVI

“For Mary Jones last night agreed,
“Or near upon't, to be my wife:
“The horse's value I don't heed,
“I only want to save his life.”

XLVII

“Buy him, hey! Abner! trust me I
“Have not the thought of gain in view;
“Bayard's best days we've seen go by;
“He shall be cheap enough to you.”

147

XLVIII

The wages paid, the horse brought out,
The hour of separation come;
The farmer turn'd his chair about,
“Good fellow, take him, take him home.

XLIX

“You're welcome, Abner, to the beast,
“For you've a faithful servant been;
“They'll thrive I doubt not in the least,
“Who know what work and service mean.’

L

The maids at parting, one and all,
From different windows different tones;
Bade him farewell with many a bawl,
And sent their love to Mary Jones.

148

LI

He wav'd his hat, and turn'd away,
When loud the cry of children rose;
“Abner, good bye!” they stopt their play;
“There goes poor Bayard! there he goes!”

LII

Half choak'd with joy, with love, and pride,
He now with dainty clover fed him,
Now took a short triumphant ride,
And then again got down and led him.

LIII

And hobbling onward up the hill,
The widow's house was full in sight,
He pull'd the bridle harder still,
“Come on, we shan't be there to night.”

149

LIV

She met them with a smile so sweet,
The stable-door was open thrown;
The blind horse lifted high his feet,
And loudly snorting, laid him down.

LV

O Victory! from that stock of laurels
You keep so snug for camps and thrones,
Spare us one twig from all their quarrels,
For Abner and the Widow Jones.

151

TO MY OLD OAK TABLE.

Friend of my peaceful days! substantial friend,
Whom wealth can never change, nor int'rest bend,
I love thee like a child. Thou wert to me
The dumb companion of my misery,
And oftner of my joys;—then as I spoke,
I shar'd thy sympathy, Old Heart of Oak!
For surely when my labour ceas'd at night,
With trembling, feverish hands, and aching sight,
The draught that cheer'd me and subdu'd my care,
On thy broad shoulders thou wert proud to bear.

152

O'er thee, with expectation's fire elate,
I've sat and ponder'd on my future fate:
On thee, with winter muffins for thy store,
I've lean'd, and quite forgot that I was poor.

Where dropp'd the acorn that gave birth to thee?
Can'st thou trace back thy line of ancestry?
We're match'd, old friend, and let us not repine,
Darkness o'erhangs thy origin and mine,
Both may be truly honourable: yet,
We'll date our honours from the day we met;
When, of my worldly wealth the parent stock,
Right welcome up the Thames from Woolwich Dock
Thou cam'st, when hopes ran high, and love was young;
But soon our olive-branches round thee sprung;
Soon came the days that tried a faithful wife,
The noise of children, and the cares of life.

153

Then, midst the threat'nings of a wintry sky,
That cough which blights the bud of infancy,
The dread of parents, Rest's inveterate foe,
Came like a plague, and turn'd my songs to woe.

Rest! without thee what strength can long survive,
What spirit keep the flame of Hope alive?
The midnight murmur of the cradle gave
Sounds of despair; and chilly as the grave
We felt its undulating blast arise,
Midst whisper'd sorrows and ten thousand sighs.
Expiring embers warn'd us each to sleep,
By turns to watch alone, by turns to weep,
By turns to hear, and keep from starting wild,
The sad, faint wailings of a dying child.
But Death, obedient to Heav'n's high command,
Withdrew his jav'lin, and unclench'd his hand;

154

The little sufferers triumph'd over pain,
Their mother smil'd, and bade me hope again.
Yet Care gain'd ground, Exertion triumph'd less,
Thick fell the gathering terrors of Distress;
Anxietv and Griefs without a name,
Had made their dreadful inroads on my frame;
The creeping Dropsy, cold as cold could be,
Unnervd my arm, and bow'd my head to thee.
Thou to thy trust, old friend, hast not been true;
These eyes the bitterest tears they ever knew
Let fall upon thee; now all wip'd away;
But what from memory shall wipe out that day?
The great, the wealthy of my native land,
To whom a guinea is a grain of sand,
I thought upon them, for my thoughts were free,
But all unknown were then my woes and me.

155

Still, Resignation was my dearest friend,
And Reason pointed to a glorious end;
With anxious sighs, a parent's hopes and pride,
I wish'd to live—I trust I could have died!
But winter's clouds pursu'd their stormy way,
And March brought sunshine with the length'ning day,
And bade my heart arise, that morn and night
Now throbb'd with irresistible delight.
Delightful 'twas to leave disease behind,
And feel the renovation of the mind!
To lead abroad, upborne on Pleasure's wing,
Our children, midst the glories of the spring;
Our fellow-sufferers, our only wealth,
To gather daisies in the breeze of health!

'Twas then, too, when our prospects grew so fair,
And Sabbath bells announc'd the morning pray'r;

156

Beneath that vast gigantic dome we bow'd,
That lifts its flaming cross above the cloud;
Had gain'd the centre of the chequer'd floor;—
That instant, with reverberating roar
Burst forth the pealing organ—mute we stood
The strong sensation boiling through my blood,
Rose in a storm of joy, allied to pain,
I wept, and worshipp'd God, and wept again
And felt, amidst the fervor of my praise,
The sweet assurances of better days.

In that gay season, honest friend of mine.
I marked the brilliant sun upon thee shine
Imagination took her flights so free,
Home was delicious with my book and thee,
The purchas'd nosegay. or brown ears of corn,
Were thy gay plumes upon a summer's morn,

157

Awakening memory, that disdains control,
They spoke the darling language of my soul:
They whisper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth,
And conjur'd back the sunshine of my youth;
Fancy presided at the joyful birth,
I pour'd the torrent of my feelings forth;
Conscious of truth in Nature's humble track,
And wrote “The Farmer's Boy” upon thy back!
Enough, old friend:—thour't mine; and shalt partake,
While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak,
Whatever fortune deals me.—Part with thee!
No, not till death shall set my spirit free;
For know, should plenty crown my life's decline,
A most important duty may be thine:
Then, guard me from Temptation's base control,
From apathy and littleness of soul.

158

The sight of thy old frame, so rough, so rude,
Shall twitch the sleeve of nodding Gratitude;
Shall teach me but to venerate the more
Honest Oak Tables and their guests—the poor;
Teach me unjust distinctions to deride,
And falsehoods gender'd in the brain of Pride;
Shall give to Fancy still the cheerful hour,
To Intellect, its freedom and its power;
To Hospitality's enchanting ring
A charm, which nothing but thyself can bring.
The man who would not look with honest pride
On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide,
And bore him, when he bow'd the trembling knee,
Home, through the mighty perils of the sea,
I love him not.—He ne'er shall be my guest;
Nor sip my cup, nor witness how I'm blest;

159

Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame,
A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame;
But thou through life a monitor shalt prove,
Sacred to Truth, to Poetry, and Love.

Dec. 1803.

163

THE HORKEY.

A PROVINCIAL BALLAD.

I

What gossips prattled in the sun,
Who talk'd him fairly down,
Up, Memory! tell; 'tis Suffolk fun,
And lingo of their own.

II

Ah! Judie Twitchet! though thou'rt dead,
With thee the tale begins;
For still seems thrumming in my head
The rattling of thy pins.

164

III

Thou Queen of knitters! for a ball
Of worsted was thy pride;
With dangling stockings great and small,
And world of clack beside!

IV

“We did so laugh; the moon shone bright;
“More fun you never knew;
“'Twas Farmer Cheerum's Horkey night,
“And I, and Grace, and Sue—

V

“But bring a stool, sit round about,
“And boys, be quiet, pray;
“And let me tell my story out;
“'Twas sitch a merry day!

165

VI

“The butcher whistled at the door,
“And brought a load of meat;
“Boys rubb'd their hands, and cried, ‘there's more,’
“Dogs wagg'd their tails to see't.

VII

“On went the boilers till the hake
“Had much ado to bear 'em;
“The magpie talk'd for talking sake,
“Birds sung;—but who could hear 'em?

VIII

“Creak went the jack; the cats were scar'd,
“We had not time to heed 'em,
“The owd hins cackled in the yard,
“For we forgot to feed 'em!

166

IX

“Yet 'twas not I, as I may say,
“Because as how, d'ye see,
“I only help'd there for the day;
“They cou'dn't lay't to me.

X

“Now Mrs. Cheerum's best lace cap
“Was mounted on her head,
“Guests at the door began to rap,
“And now the cloth was spread.

XI

“Then clatter went the earthen plates—
“‘Mind, Judie,’ was the cry;
“I could have cop't them at their pates;
“‘Trenchers for me,’ said I,

167

XII

“That look so clean upon the ledge,
“All proof against a fall;
“They never turn a sharp knife's edge,
“But fashion rules us all.

XIII

“Home came the jovial Horkey load,
“Last of the whole year's crop;
“And Grace amongst the green boughs rode
“Right plump upon the top.

XIV

“This way and that the waggon reel'd,
“And never queen rode higher;
“Her cheeks were colour'd in the fields,
“And ours before the fire.

168

XV

“The laughing harvest-folks, and John,
“Came in and look'd askew;
“'Twas my red face that set them on,
“And then they leer'd at Sue.

XVI

“And Farmer Cheerum went, good man,
“And broach'd the Horkey beer;
“And sitch a mort of folks began
“To eat up our good cheer.

XVII

“Says he, ‘Thank God for what's before us;
“That thus we meet agen;’
“The mingling voices, like a chorus,
“Join'd cheerfully, ‘Amen.’—

169

XVIII

“Welcome and plenty, there they found 'em,
“The ribs of beef grew light;
“And puddings—till the boys got round 'em,
“And then they vanish'd quite.

XIX

“Now all the guests, with Farmer Crouder,
“Began to prate of corn;
“And we found out they talk'd the louder,
“The oftner pass'd the Horn.

XX

“Out came the nuts; we set a cracking;
“The ale came round our way;
“By gom, we women fell a clacking
“As loud again as they.

170

XXI

“John sung ‘Old Benbow’ loud and strong,
“And I, ‘The Constant Swain,’
“‘Cheer up, my Lads,’ was Simon's song,
“‘We'll conquer them again.’

XXII

“Now twelve o'clock was drawing nigh,
“And all in merry cue;
“I knock'd the cask, ‘O, ho!’ said I,
“‘We've almost conquer'd you.’

XXIII

“My Lord begg'd round, and held his hat,
“Says Farmer Gruff, says he,
“‘There's many a Lord, Sam, I know that,
“‘Has begg'd as well as thee.’

171

XXIV

“Bump in his hat the shillings tumbled
“All round among the folks;
“‘Laugh if you wool,’ said Sam, and mumbled,
“‘You pay for all your jokes.’

XXV

“Joint stock you know among the men,
“To drink at their own charges;
“So up they got full drive, and then
“Went out to halloo largess.

XXVI

“And sure enough the noise they made!!—
—“But let me mind my tale:
“We follow'd them, we worn't afraid,
“We'ad all been drinking ale.

172

XXVII

“As they stood hallooing back to back,
“We, lightly as a feather,
“Went sideling round, and in a crack
“Had pinn'd their coats together.

XXVIII

“'Twas near upon't as light as noon;
“‘A largess, on the hill,
“They shouted to the full round moon,
“I think I hear 'em still!

XXIX

“But when they found the trick, my stars!
“They well knew who to blame,
“Our giggles turn'd to loud ha, ha's,
“And arter us they came.

173

XXX

“The hindmost was the dairy-maid,
“And Sam came blundering by;
“She could not shun him, so they said;
“I know she did not try.

XXXI

“And off set John, with all his might,
“To chase me down the yard,
“Till I was nearly gran'd outright;
“He hugg'd so woundy hard.

XXXII

“Still they kept up the race and laugh,
“And round the house we flew;
“But bark ye! the best fun by half
“Was Simon arter Sue.

174

XXXIII

“She car'd not, dark nor light, not she,
“So, near the dairy door
“She pass'd a clean white hog, you see,
“They'd kilt the day before.

XXXIV

“High on the spirket there it hung,—
“‘Now, Susie—what can save ye?’
“Round the cold pig his arms he flung,
“And cried, ‘Ah! here I have ye!’

XXXV

“The farmers heard what Simon said,
“And what a noise! good lack!
“Some almost laugh'd themselves to dead
“And others clapt his back.

175

XXXVI

“We all at once began to tell
“What fun we had abroad;
“But Simon stood our jeers right well;
—“He fell asleep and snor'd.

XXXVII

“Then in his button-hole upright,
“Did Farmer Crouder put
“A slip of paper, twisted tight,
“And held the candle to't.

XXXVIII

“It smok'd, and smok'd, beneath his nose,
“The harmless blaze crept higher;
“Till with a vengeance up he rose,
“Fire, Judie, Sue! fire, fire!

176

XXXIX

“The clock struck one—some talk'd of parting,
“Some said it was a sin,
“And hitch'd their chairs;—but those for starting
“Now let the moonlight in.

XL

“Owd women, loitering for the nonce ,
“Stood praising the fine weather;
“The menfolks took the hint at once
“To kiss them altogether.

XLI

“And out ran every soul beside,
“A shunny-pated crew;
“Owd folks could neither run nor hide,
“So some ketch'd one, some tew.

177

XLII

“They skriggl'd and began to scold,
“But laughing got the master;
“Some quack'ling cried, ‘let go your hold;’
“The farmers held the faster.

XLIII

“All innocent, that I'll be sworn,
“There worn't a bit of sorrow,
“And women, if their gowns are torn,
“Can mend them on the morrow.

XLIV

“Our shadows helter skelter danc'd
“About the moonlight ground;
“The wondering sheep, as on we pranc'd,
“Got up and gaz'd around.

178

XLV

“And well they might—till Farmer Cheerum,
“Now with a hearty glee,
“Bade all good morn as he came near 'em,
“And then to bed went he.

XLVI

“Then off we stroll'd this way and that,
“With merry voices ringing;
“And Echo answered us right pat,
“As home we rambl'd singing.

XLVII

“For, when we laugh'd, it laugh'd again,
“And to our own doors follow'd!
“‘Yo, ho!’ we cried; ‘Yo, ho!’ so plain,
“The misty meadow halloo'd.

179

XLVIII

“That's all my tale, and all the fun,
“Come, turn your wheels about;
“My worsted, see!—that's nicely done,
“Just held my story out!!”

XLIX

Poor Judie!—Thus Time knits or spins
The worsted from Life's ball!
Death stopt thy tales, and stopt thy pins,
—And so he'll serve us all.

A sliding pot-hook

Such a number

The lender of the reapers

Strangled

An iron hook.

For the purpose.

Giddy, thoughtless.

To struggle quick.

Choaking.

181

THE BROKEN CRUTCH.

A TALE.

“I tell you, Peggy,” said a voice behind
A hawthorn hedge, with wild briars thick entwin'd,
Where unseen trav'llers down a shady way
Journey'd beside the swaths of new-mown hay,
“I tell you, Peggy, 'tis a time to prove
“Your fortitude, your virtue, and your love.
“From honest poverty our lineage sprung,
“Your mother was a servant quite as young;—
“You weep; perhaps she wept at leaving home;
“Courage, my girl, nor fear the days to come.

182

“Go still to church, my Peggy, plainly drest,
“And keep a living conscience in your breast;
“Look to yourself, my lass, the maid's best fame,
“Beware, nor bring the Meldrums into shame:
“Be modest, to the voice of truth attend,
“Be honest, and you'll always find a friend:
“Your uncle Gilbert, stronger far than I,
“Will see you safe; on him you must rely:
“I've walk'd too far; this lameness, oh! the pain;
“Heav'n bless thee, child! I'll halt me back again;
“But when your first fair holiday may be,
“Do, dearest Peggy, spend your hours with me.”

Young Herbert Brooks, in strength and manhood bold,
Who, round the meads, his own possessions, stroll'd,
O'erheard the charge, and with a heart so gay,
Whistled his spaniel, and pursu'd his way.

183

Soon cross'd his path, and short obeisance paid,
Stout Gilbert Meldrum and a country maid;
A box upon his shoulder held full well
Her worldly riches, but the truth to tell
She bore the chief herself; that nobler part,
That beauteous gem, an uncorrupted heart.
And then that native loveliness! that cheek!
It bore the very tints her betters seek.
At such a sight the libertine would glow
With all the warmth that he can never know;
Would send his thoughts abroad without control,
The glimmering moonshine of his little soul.
“Above the reach of justice I shall soar,
“Her friends may rail, not punish; they're too poor
“That very thought the rapture will enhance,
“Poor, young, and friendless; what a glorious chance

184

“A few spare guineas may the conquest make,—
“I love the treachery for treachery's sake,—
“And when her wounded honour jealous grows,
“I'll cut away ten thousand oaths and vows,
“And bravely boast, all snarling fools defying,
“How I, a girl out-witted,—just by lying.”
Such was not Herbert—he had never known
Love's genuine smiles, nor suffer'd from his frown;
And as to that most honourable part
Of planting daggers in a parent's heart,
A novice quite:—he past his hours away,
Free as a bird, and buxom as the day;
Yet, should a lovely girl by chance arise,
Think not that Herbert Brooks would shut his eyes.

On thy calm joys with what delight I dream,
Thou dear green valley of my native stream!

185

Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand,
And every nook of thine is fairy land,
And ever will be, though the axe should smite
In Gain's rude service, and in Pity's spite,
Thy clustering alders, and at length invade
The last, last poplars, that compose thy shade:
Thy stream shall still in native freedom stray,
And undermine the willows in its way,
These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm,
This scythe of desolation call'd “Reform.”
No army past that way! yet are they fled,
The boughs that, when a school-boy, screen'd my head
I hate the murderous axe; estranging more
The winding vale from what it was of yore,
Than e'en mortality in all its rage,
And all the change of faces in an age.

186

“Warmth,” will they term it, that I speak so free;
They strip thy shades,—thy shades so dear to me!
In Herbert's days woods cloth'd both hill and dale;
But peace, Remembrance! let us tell the tale.

His home was in the valley, elms grew round
His moated mansion, and the pleasant sound
Of woodland birds that loud at day-break sing,
With the first cuckoos that proclaim the spring,
Flock'd round his dwelling; and his kitchen smoke,
That from the towering rookery upward broke,
Of joyful import to the poor hard by,
Stream'd a glad sign of hospitality;
So fancy pictures; but its day is o'er;
The moat remains; the dwelling is no more!
Its name denotes its melancholy fall,
For village children call the spot “Burnt-Hall.”

187

But where's the maid, who in the meadow-way
Met Herbert Brooks amongst the new-mown hay?

Th' adventure charm'd him, and next morning rose
The Sabbath, with its silence and repose;
The bells ceas'd chiming, and the broad blue sky
Smil'd on his peace, and met his tranquil eye
Inverted, from the foot-bridge on his way
To that still house where all his fathers lay;
There in his seat, each neighbour's face he knew—
The stranger girl was just before his pew!
He saw her kneel, with meek, but cheerful air,
And whisper the response to every prayer;
And, when the humble roof with praises rung,
He caught the Hallelujah from her tongue,
Rememb'ring with delight the tears that fell
When the poor father bade his child farewell;

188

And now, by kindling tenderness beguil'd,
He blest the prompt obedience of that child,
And link'd his fate with hers:—for, from that day,
Whether the weeks past cheerily away,
Or deep revolving doubts procur'd him pain,
The same bells chim'd—and there she was again!
What could be done? they came not there to woo,
On holy ground,—though love is holy too.

They met upon the foot-bridge one clear morn,
She in the garb by village lasses worn;
He, with unbutton'd frock that careless flew,
And buskin'd to resist the morning dew;
With downcast look she courtsied to the ground,
Just in his path—no room to sidle round.

“Well, pretty girl, this early rising yields
“The best enjoyment of the groves and fields.

189

“And makes the heart susceptible and meek,
“And keeps alive that rose upon your cheek.
“I long'd to meet you, Peggy, though so shy,
“I've watch'd your steps, and learn'd your history;
“You love your poor lame father, let that be
“A happy presage of your love for me.
“Come then, I'll stroll these meadows by your side,
“I've seen enough to wish you for my bride,
“And I must tell you so—Nay, let me hold
“This guiltless hand, I prize it more than gold;
“Of that I have my share, but fain would prove
“The sterling wealth of honourable love;
“My lands are fruitful, and my flocks increase,
“My house knows plenty, and my servants peace;
“One blessing more will crown my happy life,
“Like Adam, pretty girl, I want a wife.’

190

Need it be told his suit was not denied,
With youth, and wealth, and candour on his side?
Honour took charge of love so well begun,
And accidental meetings, one by one,
Increas'd so fast midst time's unheeded flight,
That village rumour married them outright;
Though wiser matrons, doubtful in debate,
Pitied deluded Peggy's hapless fate.
Friends took th' alarm, “And will he then disgrace
“The name of Brooks with this plebeian race?”
Others, more lax in virtue, not in pride,
Sported the wink of cunning on one side;
“He'll buy, no doubt, what Peggy has to sell,
“A little gallantry becomes him well.”
Meanwhile the youth, with self-determin'd aim,
Disdaining fraud, and pride's unfeeling claim,

191

Above control, pursued his generous way,
And talk'd to Peggy of the marriage-day.
Poor girl! she heard, with anguish and with doubt,
What her too-knowing neighbours preach'd about,
That Herbert would some nobler match prefer,
And surely never, never marry her;
Yet, with what trembling and delight she bore
The kiss, and heard the vow, “I'll doubt no more;”
“Protect me, Herbert, for your honour's sake
“You will,” she cried, “nor leave my heart to break.”
Then wrote to uncle Gilbert, joys, and fears,
And hope, and trust, and sprinkled all with tears.

Rous'd was the dormant spirit of the brave,
E'en lameness rose to succour and to save;
For, though they both rever'd young Herbert's name,
And knew his unexceptionable fame;

192

And though the girl had honestly declar'd
Love's first approaches, and their counsel shar'd,
Yet, that he truly meant to take for life
The poor and lowly Peggy for a wife;
Or, that she was not doom'd to be deceiv'd,
Was out of bounds:—it could not be believ'd.
“Go, Gilbert, save her; I, you know, am lame;
“Go, brother, go, and save my child from shame,
“Haste, and I'll pray for your success the while,
“Go, go;”—then bang'd his crutch upon the stile:—
It snapt.—E'en Gilbert trembled while he smote,
Then whipt the broken end beneath his coat;
“Aye, aye, I'll settle them; I'll let them see
“Who's to be conqu'ror this time, I or he!”

Then off he set, and with enormous strides,
Rebellious mutterings and oaths besides,

193

O'er cloverfield and fallow, bank and briar,
Pursu'd the nearest out, and fann'd the fire
That burnt within him.—Soon the Hall he spied,
And the grey willows by the water side;
Nature cried “halt!” nor could he well refuse;
Stop, Gilbert, breathe awhile, and ask the news.
“News?” cried a stooping grandame of the vale,
“Aye, rare news too; I'll tell you such a tale;
“But let me rest; this bank is dry and warm;
“Do you know Peggy Meldrum at the farm?
“Young Herbert's girl? He'as cloth'd her all in white,
“You never saw so beautiful a sight!
“Ah! he's a fine young man, and such a face!
“I knew his grandfather and all his race;
“He rode a tall white horse, and look'd so big,
“But how shall I describe his hat and wig?”

194

“Plague take his wig,” cried Gilbert, “and his hat,
“Where's Peggy Meldrum? can you tell me that?”
“Aye; but have patience, man! you'll hear anon,
“For I shall come to her as I go on,
“So hark'ye friend; his grandfather I say,”—
“Poh, poh,”—cried Gilbert, as he turn'd away.
Her eyes were fix'd, her story at a stand,
The snuff-box lay half open'd in her hand;
“You great, ill-manner'd clown! but I must bear it;
“You oaf; to ask the news, and then won't hear it!”
But Gilbert had gain'd forty paces clear,
When the reproof came murmuring on his ear.

Again he ask'd the first that pass'd him by;
A cow-boy stopt his whistle to reply.
“Why, I've a mistress coming home, that's all,
“They're playing Meg's diversion at the Hall;

195

“For master's gone, with Peggy, and his cousin,
“And all the lady-folks, about a dozen,
“To church, down there; he'll marry one no doubt,
“For that it seems is what they're gone about;
“I know it by their laughing and their jokes,
“Tho' they wor'nt ask'd at church like other folks.”

Gilbert kept on, and at the Hall-door found
The winking servants, where the jest went round:
All expectation; aye, and so was he,
But not with heart so merry and so free.
The kitchen table, never clear from beef,
Where hunger found its solace and relief,
Free to all strangers, had no charms for him,
For agitation worried every limb;
Ale he partook, but appetite had none,
And grey-hounds watch'd in vain to catch the bone.

196

All sounds alarm'd him, and all thoughts perplex'd,
With dogs, and beef, himself, and all things vex'd,
Till with one mingled caw above his head,
Their gliding shadows o'er the court-yard spread,
The rooks by thousands rose: the bells struck up;
He guess'd the cause, and down he set the cup,
And listening, heard, amidst the general hum,
A joyful exclamation, “Here they come!”—
Soon Herbert's cheerful voice was heard above,
Amidst the rustling hand-maids of his love,
And Gilbert follow'd without thought or dread,
The broad oak stair-case thunder'd with his tread;
Light tript the party, gay as gay could be,
Amidst their bridal dresses—there came he!
And with a look that guilt could ne'er withstand,
Approach'd his mece and caught her by the hand,

197

“Now are you married, Peggy, yes or no?
“Tell me at once, before I let you go!”
Abrupt he spoke, and gave her arm a swing,
But the same moment felt the wedding ring,
And stood confus'd.—She wip'd th' empassion'd tear,
“I am, I am; but is my father here?”
Herbert stood by, and sharing with his bride,
That perturbation which she strove to hide;
“Come, honest Gilbert, you're too rough this time,
“Indeed here's not the shadow of a crime;
“But where's your brother? When did you arrive?
“We waited long, for Nathan went at five!”

All this was Greek to Gilbert, downright Greek;
He knew not what to think, nor how to speak.
The case was this; that Nathan with a cart
To fetch them both at day-break was to start.

198

And so he did—but ere he could proceed,
He suck'd a charming portion with a reed,
Of that same wedding-ale, which was that day
To make the hearts of all the village gay;
Brim full of glee he trundled from the Hall,
And as for sky-larks, he out-sung them all;
Till growing giddy with his morning cup,
He, stretch'd beneath a hedge, the reins gave up;
The horse graz'd soberly without mishap,
And Nathan had a most delightful nap
For three good hours—Then, doubting, when he woke,
Whether his conduct would be deem'd a joke,
With double haste perform'd just half his part,
And brought the lame John Meldrum in his cart.
And at the moment Gilbert's wrath was high,
And while young Herbert waited his reply,

199

The sound of rattling wheels was at the door;
“There's my dear father now,”—they heard no more,
The bridegroom glided like an arrow down,
And Gilbert ran, though something of a clown,
With his best step; and cheer'd with smiles and pray'rs,
They bore old John in triumph up the stairs:
Poor Peggy, who her joy no more could check,
Clung like a dewy woodbine round his neck.
And all stood silent—Gilbert, off his guard,
And marvelling at virtue's rich reward,
Loos'd the one loop that held his coat before,
Down thumpt the broken crutch upon the floor!
They started, half alarm'd, scarce knowing why,
But through the glist'ning rapture of his eye
The bridegroom smil'd, then chid their simple fears,
And rous'd the blushing Peggy from her tears;

200

Around the uncle in a ring they came,
And mark'd his look of mingled pride and shame.

“Now honestly, good Gilbert, tell us true,
“What meant this cudgel? What was it to do?
“I know your heart suspected me of wrong,
“And that most true affection urg'd along
“Your feelings and your wrath; you were beside
“Till now the rightful guardian of the bride.
“But why this cudgel?”—“Guardian! that's the case,
“Or else to-day I had not seen this place,
“But John about the girl was so perplex'd,
“And I, to tell the truth, so mortal vex'd,
“That when he broke this crutch, and stampt and cried
“For John and Peggy, Sir, I could have died,
“Aye, that I could; for she was such a child,
“So tractable, so sensible, so mild,

201

“That if between you roguery had grown
“(Begging your pardon,) 'twould have been your own;
“She would not hurt a fly.—So off I came,
“And had I found you injuring her fame,
“And base enough to act as hundreds would,
“To ruin a poor maid—because you could,
“With this same cudgel, (you may smile or frown)
“An' please you, Sir, I meant to knock you down.”
“A burst of laughter rang throughout the Hall,
And Peggy's tongue, though overborne by all,
Pour'd its warm blessings; for, without control
The sweet unbridled transport of her soul
Was obviously seen, till Herbert's kiss
Stole, as it were, the eloquence of bliss.
“Welcome, my friends; good Gilbert, here's my hand;
“Eat, drink, or rest, they're all at your command:

202

“And whatsoever pranks the rest may play,
“You still shall be the hero of the day,
“Doubts might torment, and blunders may have teaz'd,
“Let my ale cure them; let us all be pleas'd.
“And as for honest John, let me defend
“The father of my new, my bosom friend;
“You broke your crutch, well, well, worse luck might be,
“I'll be your crutch, John Meldrum, lean on me,
“And when your lovely daughter shall complain,
“Send Gilbert's wooden argument again.
“You still may wonder that I take a wife
“From the secluded walks of humble life,
“On reason's solid ground my love began,
“And let the wise confute it if they can.
“A girl I saw, with nature's untaught grace,
“Turn from my gaze a most engaging face;

203

“I saw her drop the tear, I knew full well
“She felt for you much more than she could tell.
“I found her understanding, bright as day,
“Through all impediments still forc'd its way;
“On that foundation shall my hopes rely,
“The rock of genuine humility.
“Call'd as she is to act a nobler part,
“To rule my household, and to share my heart,
“I trust her prudence, confident to prove
“Days of delight, and still unfading love;
“And, while her inborn tenderness survives,
“That heav'nly charm of mothers and of wives,
“I'll look for joy:—But see, the neighbours all
“Come posting on to share the festival;
“And I'm determin'd, while the sun's so bright,
“That this shall be a wedding-day outright:

204

“How cheerly sound the bells! my charmer, come,
“Partake their joy, and know yourself at home.
“Sit down, good John;”—“I will,” the old man cried,
“And let me drink to you, Sir, and the bride;
“My blessing on you: I am lame and old,
“I can't make speeches, and I wo'n't be bold;
“But from my soul I wish and wish again,
“That brave good gentlemen would not disdain
“The poor, because they're poor: for, if they live
“Midst crimes that parents never can forgive,
“If, like the forest beast, they wander wild,
“To rob a father, or to crush a child,
“Nature will speak, aye, just as Nature feels,
“And wish—a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels.”

205

SHOOTER'S HILL .

I

Health! I seek thee;—dost thou love
The mountain-top or quiet vale,
Or deign o'er humbler hills to rove
On showery June's dark south-west gale?
If so, I'll meet all blasts that blow,
With silent step, but not forlorn;
Though, goddess, at thy shrine I bow,
And woo thee each returning morn.

206

II

I seek thee where, with all his might,
The joyous bird his rapture tells,
Amidst the half-excluded light,
That gilds the fox-glove's pendant bells;
Where cheerly up the bold hill's side
The deep'ning groves triumphant climb;
In groves Delight and Peace abide,
And Wisdom marks the lapse of time.

III

To hide me from the public eye,
To keep the throne of Reason clear,
Amidst fresh air to breathe or die,
I took my staff and wander'd here:
Suppressing every sigh that heaves,
And coveting no wealth but thee,
I nestle in the honied leaves,
And hug my stolen liberty.

207

IV

O'er eastward uplands, gay or rude,
Along to Erith's ivied spire,
I start, with strength and hope renew'd,
And cherish life's rekindling fire.
Now measure vales with straining eyes,
Now trace the church-yard's humble names;
Or, climb brown heaths, abrupt that rise,
And overlook the winding Thames.

V

I love to mark the flow'ret's eye,
To rest where pebbles form my bed,
Where shapes and colours scatter'd lie,
In varying millions round my head.
The soul rejoices when alone,
And feels her glorious empire free;
Sees God in every shining stone,
And revels in variety.

208

VI

Ah me! perhaps within my sight,
Deep in the smiling dales below,
Gigantic talents, Heav'n's pure light,
And all the rays of genius glow
In some lone soul, whom no one sees
With power and will to say “Arise,”
Or chase away the slow disease,
And Want's foul picture from his eyes.

VII

A worthier man by far than I,
With more of industry and fire,
Shall see fair Virtue's meed pass by,
Without one spark of fame expire!
Bleed not my heart, it will be so,
The throb of care was thine full long;
Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe,
And pour abroad the joyful song.

209

VIII

Sweet Health, I seek thee! hither bring
Thy balm that softens human ills;
Come, on the long-drawn clouds that fling
Their shadows o'er the Surry-Hills.
Yon green-topt hills, and far away
Where late as now I freedom stole,
And spent one dear delicious day
On thy wild banks, romantic Mole.

IX

Aye, there's the scene! beyond the sweep
Of London's congregated cloud,
The dark-brow'd wood, the headlong steep,
And valley-paths without a crowd!
Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides,
Thy thousand sails am proud to see;
But where the Mole all silent glides
Dwells Peace—and Peace is wealth to me!

210

X

Of Cambrian mountains still I dream,
And mouldering vestiges of war;
By time-worn cliff or classic stream
Would rove,—but Prudence holds a bar.
Come then, O Health! I'll strive to bound
My wishes to this airy stand;
'Tis not for me to trace around
The wonders of my native land.

XI

Yet, the loud torrent's dark retreat,
Yet Grampian hills shall Fancy give,
And, towering in her giddy seat,
Amidst her own creation live,
Live, if thou'lt urge my climbing feet,
Give strength of nerve and vigorous breath,
If not, with dauntless soul I meet
The deep solemnity of death.

211

XII

This far-seen monumental tower
Records th' achievements of the brave,
And Angria's subjugated power,
Who plunder'd on the eastern wave.
I would not that such turrets rise
To point out where my bones are laid;
Save that some wandering bard might prize
The comforts of its bread cool shade.

XIII

O Vanity! since thou'rt decreed
Companion of our lives to be,
I'll seek the moral songster's meed,
An earthly immortality;
Most vain!—O let me, from the past
Remembering what to man is given,
Lay Virtue's broad foundations fast,
Whose glorious turrets reach to Hea'ven.

Sickness may be often an incentive to poetical composition; I found it so; and I esteem the following lines only because they remind me of past feelings, which I would not willingly forget.

Box-Hill, and the beautiful neighhourhood of Dorking, in Surry

213

MARY'S EVENING SIGH.

I

How bright with pearl the western sky
How glorious far and wide,
Yon lines of golden clouds that lie
So peaceful side by side!
Their deep'ning tints, the arch of light,
All eyes with rapture see;
E'en while I sigh I bless the sight
That lures my love from me.

214

II

Green hill, that shad'st the valley here,
Thou bear'st upon thy brow
The only wealth to Mary dear,
And all she'll ever know.
There, in the crimson light I see,
Above thy summit rise,
My Edward's form, he looks to me
A statue in the skies.

III

Descend, my love, the hour is come,
Why linger on the hill?
The sun hath left my quiet home,
But thou can'st see him still;
Yet why a lonely wanderer stray,
Alone the joy pursue?
The glories of the closing day
Can charm thy Mary too.

215

IV

Dear Edward, when we stroll'd along
Beneath the waving corn,
And both confess'd the power of song,
And bless'd the dewy morn;
Your eye o'erflow'd, “How sweet,” you cried,
(My presence then could move)
“How sweet, with Mary by my side,
“To gaze and talk of love!”

V

Thou art not false! that cannot be;
Yet I my rivals deem
Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree,
The silence, and the stream;
Whate'er, my love, detams thee now,
I'll yet forgive thy stay;
But with to-morrow's dawn come thou,
We'll brush the dews away.

217

BARNHAM WATER.

I

Fresh from the Hall of Bounty sprung ,
With glowing heart and ardent eye,
With song and rhyme upon my tongue,
And fairy visions dancing by,
The mid-day sun in all his pow'r
The backward valley painted gay;
Mine was a road without a flower,
Where one small streamlet cross'd the way.

218

II

What was it rous'd my soul to love?
What made the simple brook so dear?
It glided like the weary dove,
And never brook seem'd half so clear.
Cool pass'd the current o'er my feet,
Its shelving brink for rest was made,
But every charm was incomplete,
For Barnham Water wants a shade.

III

There, faint beneath the fervid sun,
I gaz'd in ruminating mood;
For who can see the current run
And snatch no feast of mental food?
“Keep pure thy soul,” it seem'd to say,
“Keep that fair path by wisdom trod,
“That thou may'st hope to wind thy way,
“To fame worth boasting, and to God.”

219

IV

Long and delightful was the dream,
A waking dream that Fancy yields,
Till with regret I left the stream,
And plung'd across the barren fields;
To where of old rich abbeys smil'd
In all the pomp of gothic taste,
By fond tradition proudly styl'd,
The mighty “City in the East.”

V

Near, on a slope of burning sand,
The shepherd boys had met to play,
To hold the plains at their command,
And mark the trav'ller's leafless way.
The trav'ller with a cheerful look
Would every pining thought forbear,
If boughs but shelter'd Barnham brook
He'd stop and leave his blessing there.

220

VI

The Danish mounds of partial green,
Still, as each mouldering tower decays,
Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene
Proclaim their wond'rous length of days,
My burning feet, my aching sight,
Demanded rest,—why did I weep?
The moon arose, and such a night!
Good Heav'n! it was a sin to sleep.

VII

All rushing came thy hallow'd sighs,
Sweet Melancholy, from my breast;
“'Tis here that eastern greatness lies,
“That Might, Renown, and Wisdom rest!
“Here funeral rites the priesthood gave
“To chiefs who sway'd prodigious powers,
“The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave,
“From Framlingham's imperial towers.”

221

VIII

Full of the mighty deeds of yore,
I bade good night the trembling beam;
Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar,
Of what but slaughter could I dream?
Bless'd be that night, that trembling beam,
Peaceful excursions Fancy made;
All night I heard the bubbling stream,
Yet, Barnham Water wants a shade.

IX

Whatever hurts my country's fame,
When wits and mountaineers deride,
To me grows serious, for I name
My native plains and streams with pride.
No mountain charms have I to sing,
No loftier minstrel's rights invade;
From trifles oft my raptures spring;
—Sweet Barnham Water wants a shade.

On a sultry afternoon, late in the summer of 1802, Euston-Hall lay in my way to Thetford, which place I did not reach until the evening, on a visit to my sister: the lines lose much of their interest except they could be read on the spot, or at least at a corresponding season of the year

223

A VISIT TO RANELAGH.

I

To Ranelagh, once in my life,
By good-natur'd force I was driv'n;
The nations had ceas'd their long strife,
And Peace beam'd her radiance from Heav'n
What wonders were there to be found
That a clown might enjoy or disdain?
First we trac'd the gay ring all around,
Aye—and then we went round it again.

224

II

A thousand feet rustled on mats,
A carpet that once had been green;
Men bow'd with their outlandish hats,
With corners so fearfully keen!
Fair maids, who at home in their haste
Had left all clothing else but a train,
Swept the floor clean, as slowly they pac'd,
And then—walk'd round and swept it again.

III

The music was truly enchanting!
Right glad was I when I came near it;
But in fashion I found I was wanting:—
'Twas the fashion to walk and not hear it!
A fine youth, as beauty beset him,
Look'd smilingly round on the train;
“The king's nephew,” they cried, as they met him
Then—we went round and met him again.

225

IV

Huge paintings of Heroes and Peace
Seem'd to smile at the sound of the fiddle,
Proud to fill up each tall shining space
Round the lanthorn that stood in the middle.
And George's head too; Heav'n screen him!
May he finish in peace his long reign!
And what did we when we had seen him?
Why—went round and saw him again.

V

A bell rang, announcing new pleasures,
A crowd in an instant prest hard,
Feathers nodded, perfumes shed their treasures,
Round a door that led into the yard.
'Twas peopled all o'er in a minute,
As a white flock would cover a plain!
We had seen every soul that was in it,
Then we went round and saw them again.

226

VI

But now came a scene worth the showing,
The fireworks! midst laughs and huzzas,
With explosions the sky was all glowing,
Then down stream'd a million of stars;
With a rush the bright rockets ascended,
Wheels spurted blue fires like a rain;
We turn'd with regret when 'twas ended,
Then—star'd at each other again.

VII

There thousands of gay lamps aspir'd
To the tops of the trees and beyond;
And, what was most hugely admir'd,
They look'd all up-side-down in a pond!
The blaze scarce an eagle could bear;
And an owl had most surely been slain;
We return'd to the circle, and there—
And there we went round it again.

227

VIII

'Tis not wisdom to love without reason,
Or to censure without knowing why:
I had witness'd no crime, nor no treason,
“O life, 'tis thy picture,” said I.
'Tis just thus we saunter along,
Months and years bring their pleasure or pain;
We sigh midst the right and the wrong;
—And then we go round them again!

A grand Fete, in honour of the peace of 1802.

The intervals between the pillars in the centre of the Rotunda were filled up by transparent paintings.

229

THE WOODLAND HALLÓ.

(PERHAPS) ADAPTED FOR MUSIC.

I

In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,
I am mistress, no mother have I;
Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,
And kind is my lover hard by;
They both work together beneath the green shade,
Both woodmen, my father and Joe:
Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made
So much of a laugh or—Halló.

230

II

From my basket at noon they expect their supply,
And with joy from my threshold I spring;
For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high,
And Echo that sings as I sing.
Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food,
As I call the dear name of my Joe;
His musical shout is the pride of the wood,
And my heart leaps to hear the—Halló.

III

Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease,
I wish not to wander from you;
I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees,
For I know that my Joe will be true.
The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove,
Are charms that I'll never forego;
But resting through life on the bosom of love,
Will remember the Woodland Halló.

231

ODE TO PEACE.

WRITTEN ON THE RATIFICATION OF THE PRELIMINARIES, IN 1802.

I

Halt! ye Legions, sheathe your Steel:
Blood grows precious; shed no more:
Cease your toils; your wounds to heal,
Lo! beams of Mercy reach the shore!
From Realms of everlasting light
The favour'd guest of Heaven is come:
Prostrate your Banners at the sight,
And bear the glorious tidings home.

232

II

The plunging corpse, with half-clos'd eyes,
No more shall stain th' unconscious brine;
Yon pendant gay that streaming flies,
Around its idle Staff shall twine.
Behold! along th'ethereal sky
Her beams o'er conquering Navies spread;
Peace! Peace! the leaping Sailors cry,
With shouts that might arouse the dead.

III

Then forth Britannia's thunder pours;
A vast reiterated sound!
From Line to Line the Cannon roars,
And spreads the blazing joy around.
Return, ye brave! your Country calls;
Return, return, your task is done:
While here the tear of transport falls,
To grace your Laurels nobly won.

233

IV

Albion Cliffs—from age to age,
That bear the roaring storms of Heaven,
Did ever fiercer Warfare rage,
Was ever Peace more timely given?
Wake, sounds of Joy! rouse, generous Isle!
Let every patriot bosom glow.
Beauty, resume thy wonted smile,
And, Poverty, thy cheerful brow.

V

Boast, Britain, of thy glorious Guests;
Peace, Wealth, and Commerce, all thine own
Still on contented Labour rests
The basis of a lasting Throne.
Shout, Poverty! 'tis Heaven that saves;
Protected Wealth, the chorus raise,
Ruler of War, of Winds, and Waves,
Accept a prostrate Nation's praise.

235

LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.

WRITTEN AT CLARE-HALL, HERTS, JUNE, 1804.

I

Welcome silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holv shade!
Thus I prove, as years Increase,
My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief
While rapture's gushing tears descend,
That every flower and every leaf
Is moral Truth's unerring friend.

236

II

I would not for a world of gold
That Nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;
Pure source of intellectual fire!
Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,
Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,
Shall sweet retirement render strong,
And morning silence bring to life.

III

Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.
I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield Reason's most supreme delight

237

IV

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To Rural Gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,
That one Great Spirit governs all.
O Heaven permit that I may lie
Where o'er my corse green branches wave;
And those who from life's tumult fly
With kindred feelings press my grave.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.