The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems

By William and Mary Howitt

Howitt, Mary Botham (1799-1888)

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EPISTLE DEDICATORY

THE FOREST MINSTREL.

POEMS.

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EPISTLE DEDICATORY

TO H. H---, AND F. T. H---.

I

I thank ye, Mister wights, that ye have deem'd
So fairly of these lightly caroll'd lays
That I have chanted; albeit they seem'd
But silly rhymes, unworthy of all praise;
And never, surely, otherwise esteem'd
Than a bird's song, that, fill'd with sweet amaze
At the bright opening of the young, green spring,
Pours out its simple joy in instant warbling.

II

For never yet was mine the proud intent
To give the olden harp a thrilling sound,
Like those great spirits who of late have sent
Their wizard tones abroad, and all around
This wond'rous world have wander'd; and have spent,
In court and camp, on bann'd and holy ground,
Their gleaning glances; and, in hall and bower,
Have learn'd of mortal life the passions and the power:

III

Eyeing the masters of this busy earth,
In all the changes of ambition's toil,
From the first struggles of their glory's birth,
Till robed in power—till wearied with the spoil
Of slaughter'd realms, and dealing woe and dearth
To miserable men—and then the foil
To this great scene, the vengeance, and the frown
With which some mightier hand has pull'd those troublers down:

IV

Eyeing the passages of gentler life,
And different persons, of far different scenes;
The boy, the beau—the damsel and the wife—
Life's lowly loves—the loves of kings and queens;
Each thing that binds us, and each thing that weans
Us from this state, with pains and pleasures rife;
The wooings, winnings, weddings, and disdainings
Of changeful men, their fondness and their feignings:

V

And then have brought us home strange sights and sounds
From distant lands, of dark and awful deeds;
And fair and dreadful spirits; and gay rounds
Of mirth and music; and then mourning weeds;
And tale of hapless love that sweetly wounds
The gentle heart, and its deep fondness feeds;
Lapping it up in dreams of sad delight
From its own weary thoughts, in visions wild and bright:—

VI

Oh! never yet to me the power or will
To match these mighty sorcerers of the soul
Was given; but on the bosom, lone and still,
Of nature cast, I early wont to stroll
Through wood and wild, o'er forest, rock, and hill,
Companionless; without a wish or goal,
Save to discover every shape and voice
Of living thing that there did fearlessly rejoice.

VII

And every day that boyish fancy grew;
And every day those lonely scenes became
Dearer and dearer, and with objects new,
All sweet and peaceful, fed the young spirit's flame.
Then rose each silent woodland to the view,
A glorious theatre of joy! then came
Each sound a burst of music on the air,
That sank into the soul to live for ever there!

VIII

Then did I gather, with a keen delight,
All changes of the seasons, and their signs:
Then did I speed forth, at the first glad sight
Of the coy spring—of spring that archly shines
Out for a day—then goes—and then more bright
Comes laughing forth, like a gay lass that lines
A dark lash with a ray that beams and burns,
And scatters hopes and doubts, and smiles and frowns, by turns.

IX

On a sweet, shining morning thus sent out,
It seem'd what man was made for, to look round
And trace the full brook, that, with clamorous route,
O'er fallen trees, and roots black curling, wound
Through glens, with wild brakes scatter'd all about;
Where not a leaf or green blade yet was found
Springing to hide the red fern of last year,
And hemlock's broken stems, and rustling rank grass sere.

X

But hazel catkins, and the bursting buds
Of the fresh willow, whisper'd “spring is coming;”
And bullfinches forth flitting from the woods,
With their rich silver voices; and the humming
Of a new waken'd bee that pass'd; and broods
Of ever dancing gnats, again consuming,
In pleasant sun-light, their re-given time;
And the germs swelling in the red shoots of the lime:

XI

All these were tell-tales of far brighter hours,
That had been, and again were on their way;
The breaking forth of green things, and of flowers,
From the earth's breast; from bank and quickening spray
Dews, buds, and blossoms; and in woodland bowers,
Fragrant and fresh, full many a sweet bird's lay,
Sending abroad, from the exultant spring,
To every living heart a gladsome welcoming.

XII

Oh, days of glory! when the young soul drank
Delicious wonderment through every sense!
And every tone and tint of beauty sank
Into a heart that ask'd not how, or whence
Came the dear influence; from the dreary blank
Of nothingness sprang forth to an existence
Thrilling and wond'rous; to enjoy—enjoy
The new and glorious blessing—was its sole employ.

XIII

To roam abroad amidst the mists, and dews,
And brightness of the early morning sky,
When rose and hawthorn leaves wore tenderest hues:
To watch the mother linnet's stedfast eye,
Seated upon her nest; or wondering muse
On her eggs' spots, and bright and delicate dye;
To peep into the magpie's thorny hall,
Or wren's green cone in some hoar mossy wall;

XIV

To hear of pealing bells the distant charm,
As slow I wended down some lonely dale,
Past many a bleating flock, and many a farm,
And solitary hall; and in the vale
To meet of eager hinds a hurrying swarm,
With staves and terriers hastening to assail
Polecat, or badger, in their secret dens,
Or otter lurking in the deep and reedy fens;

XV

To pass through villages, and catch the hum
Forth bursting from some antiquated school,
Endow'd long since by some old knight, whose tomb
Stood in the church just by; to mark the dool
Of light-hair'd lads that inly rued their doom,
Prison'd in that old place, that with the tool,
Stick-knife or nail, of many a sly offender,
Was carved and figured over, wall, and desk, and window;

XVI

To meet in green lanes happy infant bands,
Full of health's luxury, sauntering and singing,
A childish, wordless melody; with hands
Cowslips, and wind-flowers, and green brook-lime bringing;
Or weaving caps of rushes; or with wands
Guiding their mimic teams; or gaily swinging
On some low sweeping bough, and clinging all
One to the other fast, till, laughing, down they fall;

XVII

To sit down by some solitary man,
Hoary with years, and with a sage's look,
In some wild dell where purest waters ran,
And see him draw forth his black-letter book,
Wond'ring, and wond'ring more, as he began,
On it, and then on many an herb to look,
That he had wander'd, wearily and wide,
To pluck from jutting rocks, and woods, and mountain side;

XVIII

And then, as he would wash his healing roots
In the clear stream, that ever went singing on,
Through banks o'erhung with herbs and flowery shoots,
Leaning as if they loved its gentle tune,
To hear him tell of many a plant that suits
Fresh wound, or fever'd frame; and of the moon
Shedding o'er weed and wort her healing power,
For gifted wights to cull in her ascendant hour;

XIX

To lie abroad on nature's lonely breast,
Amidst the music of a summer's sky,
Where tall, dark pines the northern bank invest
Of a still lake; and see the long pikes lie
Basking upon the shallows; with dark crest,
And threat'ning pomp, the swan go sailing by;
And many a wild fowl on its breast that shone,
Flickering like liquid silver, in the joyous sun:

XX

The duck, deep poring with his downward head,
Like a buoy floating on the ocean wave;
The Spanish goose, like drops of crystal, shed
The water o'er him, his rich plumes to lave;
The beautiful widgeon, springing upward, spread
His clapping wings; the heron, stalking grave,
Into the stream; the coot and water-hen
Vanish into the flood, then, far off, rise again;

XXI

And when warm summer's holiday was o'er,
And the bright acorns patter'd from the trees;
When fires were made, and closed was every door;
And winds were loud, or else a chilling breeze
Came comfortless, driving cold fogs before:
On dismal, shivering evenings, such as these,
To pass by cottage windows, and to see,
Round a bright hearth, sweet faces shining happily;

XXII

These were the days of boyhood! Oh! such days
Shall never, never more return again—
When the fresh heart, all witless of the ways,
The sickening, sordid, selfish ways of men,
Danced in creation's pure and placid blaze,
Making an Eden of the loneliest glen!
Darkness has follow'd fast, and few have been
The rays of sunlight cast upon life's dreary scene.

XXIII

For years of lonely thought, in morning-tide
Of life, will make a spirit all unfit
To brook of men the waywardness and pride;
Too proud itself to woo, or to submit;
Scorning, as vile, what all adore beside,
And deeming only glorious the soul lit
With the pure flame of knowledge, and the eye
Fill'd with the gentle love of the bright earth and sky.

XXIV

Fancy's spoil'd child will ever surely be
A thing of nothing in the worldly throng:
Wrapp'd up in dreams that they can never see;
Listening to fairy harp, or spirit's song,
Where all to them is stillest vacancy:
For ever seeking, as he glides along,
Some kindred heart, that feels as he has felt,
And can aread each thought that with him long has dwelt.

XXV

But place him midst creation!—let him stand
Where wave and mountain revel in his sight,
Then shall his soul triumphantly expand,
With gathering power, and majesty, and light!
The world beneath him is the temple plann'd
For him to worship in; and, pure and bright,
Heaven's vault above, the proud eternal dome
Of his Almighty Sire, and his own future home!

XXVI

With such inspiring fancies, mortal pride
Shrinks into nothing; and all mortal things
He casts, as weeds cast by the ocean tide,
From its embraces; the world's scorn he flings
Back on itself, disdaining to divide,
With its low cares, that sensitive spirit that brings
Home to his breast all nature's light and glee,
Holding with sunshine, clouds, and gales, unearthly revelry.

XXVII

Here comes the winding of my tale at last,
That witching youth has led so far about;—
As the world's frowns, and nature's smiles have pass'd
O'er me, the voice of passion would break out—
Transport or scorn; for who longs not to cast
Forth into shape each thought, sensation, doubt?
Eye them a moment; then, like sibyl leaves,
Scatter to the idle winds, what idler fancy weaves?

XXVIII

But now 'tis spring, and bards are gathering flowers;
So I have cull'd you these, and with them sent
The gleanings of a nymph whom some few hours
Ago I met with—some few years I meant—
Gathering “true-love” amongst the wild-wood bowers;
You'll find some buds all with this posy blent,
If that ye know them, which some lady fair
Viewing, may haply prize, for they are wond'rous rare.

XXIX

And now good-bye!—to you and verse good-bye!
At least as long as poets keep their vows;
And if, while up these fainting blooms ye tie
Into a nosegay, ye should witness brows
Arching with scorn, or knit most angrily,
Twine them a poppy-garland, to compose
Them into slumber; a far pleasanter thing
Than chafing at the tender, early blooms ye bring.