Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads :: :: University of Virginia Library

The wind brings now and then a gust
Of harvest mirth into the town,
When sudden clouds of whitening dust
Come sweeping o'er the stubble brown:
The bees are silent in their hive,
The swallows sleep within their nest,
Careless of all the winds that strive
To quench the sun-flame in the west.

The flowers that cluster o'er the thatch
Are closed, but all the scent of noon
Creeps through the doors when lifted latch
Gives entrance to the light; the moon
Spreads silvering o'er the dial's face,
Where saints guard round the old church porch,
Beside yon gabled market-place,
The sun has scarcely ceased to scorch.

256

The farmer counts the golden heaps
Of his new-gathered summer corn;
His honest heart in gladness leaps
As he froths up the drinking-horn;
And when the reapers shout together,
He brims each cup with barley juice,
And, merry as the harvest weather,
Will suffer none to make excuse.

The hunter, with a well-gloved finger,
Frets playfully his fluttering hawk;
And far behind the strong hounds linger,
While at his feet the mastiffs stalk.
“Good e'en” to all the market folk
Comes gladly from his laughing mouth;
The hooded girls his cheerful joke
Love, as the spring flowers do the south.

The children at the churchyard gate
On noisy games are all intent,
Nor raise their eyes, though by, in state,
A burgher to the council went;
But grief disturbs them now and then,
When screams the shrill voice of the dame:
They swear if they can once grow men,
They would not stir though father came.

257

The smith is toiling in his shed—
Bright shines the flame through rift and chink—
The fire upon the anvil red
Waves up but down again to sink;
And firm, as if for life and death,
That sturdy arm smites hot and fast,
And all the while the bellows' breath
Fans up the roaring stithy blast.

The ceaseless sparkles star the room,
Bright horse-shoes glimmer from the roof,
And, Cyclops-like, through dark and gloom,
Wild heads bend round the charger's hoof.
The smith upon his hammer rests,
And listens to the tailor's news;
Strong-armed, with broad and brawny chest,
His cheeks rich tanned with motley hues.

The tailor leans upon the hatch,
His shuffling slippers on his feet,
His gossip voice by fits you catch
Between the hammer's ceaseless beat;
His threaded needle in his hand,
His scissors peeping from his pouch,
A roll of patterns in his band,
The busy craftsman all avouch.

258

The miller by his mill-dam stands,
And listens to the burring wheel,
Rubbing with glee his floury hands,
For last night rose the price of meal.
The snowy tide that rushes down
Floods with a silver stream his purse;
He chinks his gold when poor men frown,
And counts it when the townsmen curse.

Two lovers by the distant bridge
Watch the swift stream that wanders under,
Where massy pier and greystone ridge
Cleave the clear-flowing tide asunder;
You hear the mill-throb now and then
In spite of all the buzz within,
The miller shouting to his men,
While the white roof is vibrating.

The landlord stands beneath his sign,
That far above him groans and creaks;
He's counting up the jugs of wine
Drunk for the last half-dozen weeks.
Behind him stands the crafty groom,
Stealing from willing maid a kiss;
Cups rattle in the latticed room—
To landlord's ear the sound is bliss.

259

The miller on the purple down
Is listening to the rising wind
Sweep headlong on toward the town;
He knows enough has stayed behind
To drive the sails and turn the wheel;
The creaking stone from every plank
Shakes off the white dust of the meal
Upon the sacks, ranged there in rank.

The fisher by the river-side
Has watched all day the buoyant float,
Though skies grow flushed with crimson pride,
His changeless eye no beauties note.
In melancholy, lonesome sport
Gazes like beauty in a glass;
His glittering spoil but newly caught
Lies writhing by him on the grass.

Far up the rocky mountain stream
The hunter watches for the deer;
Through golden boughs the waters gleam,
The leaf upon the oak is sere;
The foam lies white in rocky nooks
Beneath the boughs all red and brown,
And through a cleft you see the brooks
Babble together to the town.

260

The page from castle parapet
Looks o'er the orchards in the vale,
Sees in the woods the crimson globe
Flame bright upon the distant sail.
And far beneath the lichened wall
The distant river glides away;
The wind that rends the poplars tall
Stays with the flowers to kiss and play.

The breeze that stirs his bonnet's plume,
And dallies with the castle flag,
Sheds round the rich man's hall perfume,
Yet strips the beggar of his rag.
The vane upon the old church tower
Shines like a star above the trees;
O'er gabled roof the sounding hour
To weary reapers bringing ease.

The fisher's boat is in the bay,
And rocking by the weedy shore;
His shouting children leap and play,
And bid the hush'd waves louder roar.
The gulls scream floating round the crag,
The breakers whiten all the reef,
The sea-bird, poised upon the jag,
Fills the grey air with shrieks of grief.

261

A sudden gloom fills all the town,
The wind comes sighing o'er the moors,
And wandering, moaning up and down,
Shakes with its trembling hand the doors,—
When slowly through the market-place
A stranger rode, but spoke to none;
A broad hat darkened all his face,
He never looked up at the sun.

The dealers stopped to stare and gaze,
The children ceased to talk and play;
On every gossip's face amaze,
In every mother's eye dismay;
The matrons at the open pane
Stayed all at once their spinning-wheels,
The old wife hushed her wise old saying,
The threads ceased running from the reels.

A whisper through the long street ran—
It spread through all the market-place;
The cobbler turned his ready ear
Unto the tailor's earnest face;
Both mouths pursed up, and eyes half closed,
Afraid to let the secret out;
The deaf man stared, half angry, posed,
For none into his ear would shout;

262

The pilgrim, by the way-side cross,
Ceased half unsaid his votive prayer;
The knight pulled up his weary horse,
The ploughman staid his glittering share;
The miller stops the noisy mill,
The ringers in the belfry rest,
All through the valley to the hill
Bear down the rain-clouds from the west.

Another year—the tall grass grew,
And seeded in the open street;
At noon unmelted lay the dew,
In spite of all the parching heat;
The smith's red fire has long gone out.
A mournful silence fills the mill,
You cannot hear the reapers shout,
The very tailor's tongue is still.