The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott

Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes

Elliott, Ebenezer (1781-1849)

II.

LYRICS FOR MY DAUGHTERS.

BALLADS.

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304

BALLADS.

ONE OF THE HOMES,

A HEALTH OF TOWNS' BALLAD.

The small boy, in his home of sighs,
As if he hated man,
Died, with raised hand, and open eyes,
Frowning at little Ann.
Then, died his bird: she wept, she sigh'd:
'Twas worn to skin and bone;
But whether it of famine died,
Or fever, is not known.
She wept, but not for John—and yet
She loved her brother well;
She wept—wept for his little pet!
But why she could not tell.
Where frown'd its friend, his bird she put
Within the coffin small;
But then the lid refused to shut!
She thought she heard him call!

305

The dead hand propp'd the coffin-lid,
Above the dreadful frown;
It would keep up! it would, and did;
The joiner screwed it down.
And so, they slept in company;
The blighted feather'd flower!
And poor bud of humanity—
Both blighted in one hour.
Farewell, thou old street-shunning lane,
Where John whole hours would stay,
When welcomed flowers came back again,
To welcome rainbow'd May!
Flowers which by name he once could call!
For he, with childish pride,
Had kept, at home, a funeral
Of flowers, that weekly died.
His father, who loved wild flowers, too,
Had taught the child their names,
Though, with a florist's pride, he grew
Outlandish flowers, in frames.
Where lay the father on the floor,
Was laid the coffin small;
The mother lay behind the door,
So, there were four in all;
The blasted, black, once beauteous thorn,
That never more would grow;
The rose, once sweet as dewy morn;
The blighted bud of woe;

306

And, happiest there of all, the bird
That ne'er saw God's bless'd sun,
Or growing flower; ne'er saw, or heard,
Tree wave, or river run.
The rats peep'd out behind the door,
And loth they seem'd to go;
The rats jumped down beneath the floor,
Into the sewer below.
Men raised, in haste, the coffins three,
In fearful haste were they:
Ann, famish'd, follow'd gloomily,
And heard the parson pray.
Grey-hair'd he was, a grey-hair'd youth,
Kind, humble, just, and wise;
He look'd on woe-worn toil and truth
With pity's tearful eyes;
For he, a poor man's friendless son,
Once suffer'd long distress,
And hard up-hill his way had won
To honour'd usefulness.
His gown'd back to the wind he turn'd,
And waved the holy book:
On corpses three, by one child mourn'd
He look'd, with solemn look:
Behind him far, two youths well clad
Stood mute, with ladies two:
Before him gasp'd the bann'd and bad,
A poor death-daring crew:

307

One feebly clasp'd a dying child,
Sobbing; another said,
“Thank God for Plague!” and darkly smiled:
A third said, “God is dead!”
Their famine grinn'd—What could it less?
Their sadness wore a frown;
Their “loop'd and window'd raggedness”
Blasphemed the parson's gown.
But when that grey-hair'd pastor spoke,
Their prostrate hearts arose,
And trembling hope, like starlight, broke
On each despairer's woes:
“In life,” he said, “we are in death,
Through death to life we rise:
In fear man draws his fleeting breath,
In sorrow lives and dies:
We come like shadows—and are gone;
Dust are we, dust to be;
Until this mortal hath put on
Its immortality.”

308

DEVIL BYRON.

A BALLAD.

A strange man own'd yon Abbey once,
Men call'd him Devil Byron;
Yet he a sister had who loved
Well that man of iron.

309

And well he loved that sister—Love
Is strong in rugged bosoms;
Even as the barren-seeming bough
Oft hoards richest blossoms.

Yet from his heart, when she espoused
A peasant, he dismissed her;
And thenceforth Devil Byron spoke
Never, to his sister.

Therefore, whene'er he drove abroad,
She chased the Man of iron,
Rode by his wheels, and riding cried,
“Speak to me, Lord Byron!”

Thus, at his chariot's side, she pray'd;
For was he not her brother?
“Do speak to me, my lord!” she said;
Was he not her brother?

Her quivering hand, her voice, her looks,
Might wring soft speech from iron;
But he speaks not!—her heart will break:
He is Devil Byron.

Yet down his cheeks tears shoot, like hail;
Then, speak, thou Angel's brother!
Why struggle, in thy burning soul
Wordless fire to smother?

310

Oh, Power is cruel!—Wilful Man!
Why kill thy helpless sister?
Relent! repent! already, lo,
Beauteous blight hath kiss'd her

Men say, a spectre with thee walks,
And will not from thee sever;
A shadow—not, alas, thy own!
Pointing at thee ever.

Oh, think of Chaworth rashly slain,
And wrath, too late repenting!
Think of the kiss men give the dead!
Vainly, then, relenting.

Think of thy sister's mother's grave;
Think of your days of childhood—
The little hands in fondness join'd,
Wandering through the wild-wood.

The hedgerose, then, was not so fair
As she, in gladness ranging;
Now, sorrowful as beautiful!
Changed, and sadly changing!

The wither'd hand, the failing voice,
Moved they the Man of iron?
The live rose took the dead one's hue:
God, forgive thee, Byron!

311

As rainbow fades, she perish'd. Then,
How fared the stubborn-hearted?
With her, the wrong'd and lost, he lived—
Never to be parted.

The Abbot's garden well he liked,
But there a shape was sighing;
There, in each pale, reproachful flower,
Sinless love seem'd dying.

The bird that on the belfry wail'd,
It all her tones did borrow;
The shadows in his banquet-hall
Wore her brow of sorrow.

Where'er he went, she with him went—
Alas, thou stubborn-hearted!
The grey old Abbey's gloom did groan,
“Life and Death, be parted!”

He wish'd, but did not pray, for death—
Pray, pray, thou Heart of iron!
Dying he heard her heart's last pray'r,
“Speak to me, Lord Byron!”

Dying, he saw her dying face;
And as with poison'd lashes,
It look'd forgiveness, its slow smile,
Smote him—He is ashes.

312

Well sleep the dead: in holy ground
Well sleeps the Heart of iron:
The worm that pares his sister's cheek,
What cares it for Byron?

Yet when her night of death comes round,
They ride and drive together,
And ever when they drive and ride,
Wilful is the weather.

On mighty wings, in spectre coach,
Fast speeds the Heart of iron;
On spectre-steed, the spectre-dame—
Side by side with Byron.

The winds they blow rain, sleet, and snow
To welcome Devil Byron;
Through sleet and snow the hail doth go,
Ripp'd—like shot of iron.

A star? 'Tis gone. The moon? How fast
She hurries through wild weather!
The coach and steed chase moon and star,
Lost and seen together.

“Halloo!”—The slain hath left his grave!
He knows thee, Heart of iron!
And with a laugh that daft's hellfire,
Hails thy sister, Byron!

313

Which is most sad of saddest things.
The laughter? or the weeping?
Laughs Chaworth, while her Feast of Sighs
Love-in-Death is keeping?

Thou ghastly thing! thou mockery
Of life, and human doings!
With flame-like eyes, on shadows fix'd!
Shadows which are ruins!

Thou see'st but sadness in her smile,
And pity in her sadness,
And in her slander'd innocence
Pain, that once was gladness.

And can'st thou—while Night groans—do less
Than weep for injured woman?
Man! is thy manhood manliness?
Is she not a woman?

Oh, Night doth love her! oh, the clouds
They do her form environ!
The lightning weeps—it hears her sob,
“Speak to me, Lord Byron!”

On winds, on clouds, they ride, they drive—
Oh, hark, thou Heart of iron!
The thunder whispers mournfully,
“Speak to her, Lord Byron!”

314

My God! thy judgments dreadful are
When thought its vengeance wreaketh,
And mute reproach is agony:
Now, thy thunder speaketh!

He doth not speak! he cannot speak;
Then, break, thou Heart of iron!
It cannot break! it cannot break!
I can weep for Byron.

The uttered word is oft a sin,
Its stain oft everlasting;
But, oh, that saddest unsaid word;
Its dumb guilt is blasting!

Eternity, the ever young,
Hath, with fix'd hand, recorded
The speechless deed unspeakable;
Ne'er to be unworded!

Oh, write it, then, “in weeping blood,”
Ye purified and thwarted!
Oh, House of Brokenheartedness!
Spare the broken-hearted.

Tell not the fallen that they fell,
The foil'd that there are winners,
If He, whose name is Purity,
Died, to ransom sinners.

315

No, spare the wronger and the wrong'd,
Oh, ye, who wrongs inherit!
“A wounded spirit who can bear?”
Soothe, the erring spirit!

He, earning least, and taking most,
May love the wrong in blindness,
Not needing less, but all the more,
Pity, help, and kindness.

THE GIPSY.

AN OLD LEGEND MODERNIZED.

John Fowler, I owe you a tale or a song,
I've remain'd, I confess it, your debtor too long;
So, painting in verse and rude Saxon a scene
Where oft with the bard of the rabble you've been,
I daub on the landscape a figure or two,
Not portraits from life, but ideally true,
And humbly inscribe the poor picture to you.

316

I.

Said horse-swapping Jem, with his hat on his lap,
While his bull-bitch sat listening near,
“Was ever yet seen by a Stannington-Chap
A contrast like this I see here?
With Susan, my cousin, just four feet by two,
Here's a gipsy as tall as a stee:
I guess, she is telling my fortune to Sue;
And, I guess, we know what it will be.”

II.

With his legs on the turf, o'er his hat and his knees,
Behind the bare brambles he bent,
While Rivilin sang to the palm-waving breeze,
A sweet ancient song about new-budded trees,
As townward together the stream and the breeze
Through regions of loveliness went;
And he gazed, squatting low in the old birken wood,

317

On the marble-fac'd prophetess brown,
Whose eyes flash'd black venom where stately she stood,
In her grey cloak and long sallow gown;
With her slightly arch'd nose, her smooth brow finely spread,
Her chin sharply chisel'd, and bold
Under lips of firm beauty, her face and her head
Formed an oval of darkness and gold.
Her hair was like horsehair, when glossy it lies
On the strong stallion's neck, where the fledged linnet flies;
And her black felted hat, suiting well with her size,
Was a crown on the head of a queen;
But 'twas strange! when he look'd on her face and wild eyes,
Her eyes only seem'd to be seen.

III.

“What faults,” said the giantess, lifting her brow
While a smile lit her loveliness grim,
“What faults hath John Mathews, thy husband, that thou
Would'st swap him for horse-swapping Jem?”

318

IV.

“I can't bear the sight of the flimsy old fool,”
Black with rage, childless Susan replied,
“While he bends o'er his books, like a sack on a stool,
Fill'd with lumbering learning and pride.
Is it my fault, or his with his tea-water blood,
(In a Maltster a fault seldom seen,)
That I'm talk'd of in scorn, under bonnet and hood
Wherever big bellies convene?
The lawyers want hanging. What right have old men
To marry fair maids of eighteen?
But he wheez'd, when he courted me, like a pipp'd hen,
Such maggot's meat never was seen.
This day is his birthday; he's fifty or more;
How strong the changed villain appears!
Oh, never was damsel so cheated before!
And his folly grows green with his years.
Of original sin, and the fruits of the fall,
I hate the vile picture he paints:
He hardly believes in the Devil at all!
Then how can he trust in the saints?
He pays to a Bookclub—When, when will it break?
Its infidels fill me with fear!—
He wastes in a newspaper fourpence a week,
And in music five shillings a year.

319

For what did I marry? The Wigtwizzle land
Will go, when he dies, to Jem's Nan!
His little gets less, like an used clew of band;
I have neither won money nor man.
The corn which he buys, goes as fast as it comes;
He malts it, and sells it on trust;
His customers schedule, while he sucks his thumbs,
And thrive, while I pine on a crust.
Every rogue knows Old Clever, whom babies deceive;
He gets all, to risk all again!
Oh, he'll make his old will, when he's nothing to leave!
I may knit, but industry is vain.
And he reads, ay, and writes, when his day's work is done,
Bent double beside the great pan,
While my cousin swaps horses, or fettles his gun,
Or fights in the fair—like a man.”

V.

“A hard case indeed!”—in her ear-rings of gold,
Blue-kerchief'd beneath hat and chin,
Said the black-stocking'd sorner; and then slowly told
Her charm of deep cunning and sin:

320

“Thy husband bewitch'd shall, feet foremost, be borne
To Bradfield, where slumber his sires,
If thou, after tea, before ten in the morn,
Wilt visit thy cousin, Jem Squires;
And—nipping the thumb of his crippled left hand
With the finger and thumb of thy right,
Say, ‘Coffins mean Weddings! and, Jem, understand
That Morning still follows the Night!’
But if thou, in him, ere the summer be o'er,
A true loving husband wouldst find,
Before thou go forth, let thy tyrant, once more,
Hear a bit of thy long-troubled mind:
And no one shall ask thee, ‘What did'st thou? or Why?’
Nor shalt thou be scared or ashamed;
For ends may be ruled by the planets on high,
And no honest woman be blamed.”

VI.

She said, and away, with a spring in her feet,
(Erect, bony-ankled, and strong,)
Departed, through gorse, blooming golden and sweet,
While the lark sang his evening song.
Jem laugh'd, but not loudly. How joyfully fast
Through the wood of moss'd birches went Sue!

321

And both reach'd their homes, ere the setting sun cast
Bright gold on the cloud that from Stannington pass'd,
And purple o'er Rivilin blue.

VII.

All night, she lay sleepless—or dreaming, all night,
That a coffin a wedding implies!—
John dream'd he had lost her! and wept with delight!
But he waked, and saw rage in her eyes!
With her hands on her hips, clad already, she seem'd
Prepared, and determined for strife;
For John was bewitch'd! and by all he was deem'd
The plague of his plague of a wife.
“Young wives and old husbands shall never agree,”
Sigh'd Susan, repenting too late;
“One side of a ladder is hardly a stee,”
Sigh'd John, as he turn'd from his mate.
Poor Henpeck! to please her all vainly he tried;
For though quite an angel was she,
He could not have pleased her, unless he had died,
And no such intention had he.
A spell was upon him—Yes, do what he might,
His virtues were manifest crimes;
He always did wrong, and she always did right!
As she'd told him, some hundreds of times.

322

VIII.

Bright, bright shone the morning, when breakfast was done;
But Sally, the maid, look'd with fear
On Susan's broad face, that grew black in the sun—
A sign that a tempest was near.
The thrush sang without, where the gorse and the broom
Wore their gold, near the overshot mill;
And the birch was in bud, and the larch was in bloom,
Beside the old farm on the hill;
But, within, nought was heard save the sad undergrowl
Of Susan, that lady of grief,
While John turn'd his back on the wife of his soul,
Pretending to read, and be deaf;
Yet watching the storm, which he well knew would come,
And lifting his left ear in pain,
As he chuck'd the crack'd seal, with his finger and thumb,
On the ring of his copper watch-chain;
Or fast in his book turn'd the pages, unread;
Or twisted its bit of red tape;
Or pull'd to and fro the brown wig on his head,
With its tail doubled up in his cape.

323

Slow rising, at length—like Sir Graham in place,
Or a broad-bottom'd Image of Fate;
She stood—like Resolve, sworn to steal a watch-case,
Or like a thick “pillar of state;”
But soon on the floor stump'd her short flabby legs,
Her broad face seem'd broader to grow,
And then, as she spoke, she revolved on her pegs,
Like a tub on one end turning slow.

IX.

“Now, Learned Old Fellow! I'll state thy true case:
Oh, what a wrong'd woman am I!
I'll leave thee, I'll get a good housekeeper's place—
And do something else by and bye.
This comes of your printing, and new-fangled schools;
I'm driven from thy board, and thy bed;
But if thou art wise, let me live with the fools,
For they know how to butter their bread.
Oh, if I'd an income, a home of my own,
I'd ne'er look again on thy face;
But my wrongs, Mister Intellect! all shall be known
When I've got a good housekeeper's place.
Then, bless'd with thy absence, and snug as a mouse,
I'll pick with a friend a dry bone;
For thy famous tup shins shall ne'er enter our house,
Though I can't turn thee out of thy own.

324

I read thee, Old Dog, and old Cain on thy brow!
My pearls are but thrown unto swine:
A pattern for servants to copy art thou;
What manners, Old Beggar, are thine!
Thy brothers were beggars—Thou Son of Old Spite!
Will the brother of fools say, I lie?
Thy parish-paid aunt was a threadbare Old Fright;
Thy father was blind of an eye;
Thy uncle's lean niece had a face like a fish;
Her husband gave bail for two thieves;
Thy cousin, blue Snob, was sold up, spoon and dish;
Did he die in a shirt without sleeves?
Thy sisters, they—Oh, not a breath can I fetch!
Dog! my breathing—my breathing's so bad!—
But it's well there's a madhouse, thou raving Old Wretch!
Sarah! Sarah! the Fellow's gone mad!”

X.

But John kept his temper: “Do leave us, dear Sue!
For I've long been the plague of thy life:
Besides, I and Sally without thee can do;
And Jem is in want of a wife.”

325

XI.

“Agreed!” with a shout answer'd Susan; and soon
She complied with the despot's desire;
For she roll'd out of door, like a lady balloon,
Or a puncheon of brandy on fire.
Bright red was her gown, green and yellow her shawl,
Betassell'd and fringed to the knee;
And a cloak of flower'd purple she flung over all;
Oh, a regular tulip was she!
Beneath her umbrella-like bonnet, put on
With a town-knowing twitch of much grace,
She seem'd like two fat tapster's-wives, join'd in one.
And netted together with lace.
In front, like a star, her broad quarters between,
Shone her clasp of raised silver on steel;
And she holds in one hand, that her wealth may be seen,
Her boa and tippet of seal;
While the other, muff'd richly, and cushion'd from cold,
She waves, like a fan, as she goes,
Both to show her gold watch, round her waist chain'd in gold,
And cool the hot blood in her nose.

326

And fast through the croft, where the crab blossom'd white,
Scattering snow to the bilberry brake;
Fast by the old stones, with grey lichens and light
Speckled o'er, like the back of a snake;
Fast down the steep hill, through the wild wizard wood,
Fast over the river she hied;
Then, climb'd to the nook, where her cousin's house stood,
And met there—Himself and his Bride!
A chaise at the gate, and a postboy she found;
At their ribands she could not but stare,
When he open'd the door, threw the steps to the ground—
And out came the new-married pair!
For Jem (Shabby Fellow!) had wedded his maid!
Oh, Prophetess, deep was thy guile!
And vulgar he look'd in his breeches of plaid,
When thus spake the bride, with a smile:
“Good Susan, we ask not, What dost thou? or why?
Nor are we afraid or ashamed;
For ends may be ruled by the planets on high,
And no honest woman be blamed.”

327

XII.

“Did Sal stop the clock, from past five until seven?”
Said Jem, with the look of a lamb;
“By my wife's lever-watch it is now near eleven;
There's treachery, certain I am.”

XIII.

For the first time in life Susan redden'd with shame,
And out rush'd the bull-bitch, to see!
But, broad as a cask, o'er the bitch roll'd the dame;
Oh, a sadly changed lady was she!
In dirt lay the tulip, red, purple, and green,
With its stripes of bright yellow so fine!
And truly she said, “I'm not fit to be seen,”
While vainly Jem press'd her to dine.

XIV.

Back, down the long bank, full of wisdom, she went:
Let none on that name cast a slur!
She could not conceive what the vile gipsy meant,
By supposing that Jem would suit her!
He rode like a clown, in his coat or his cloak,
And she loath'd his vile breeches of plaid:
If he brought her tobacco, (she did sometimes smoke,)

328

It was always in brandy o'erpaid.
A nasty, colloguing, conspiring, lame cheat,
One-handed, left-legg'd, and pig-eyed!
She'd not cross her door sich a fellow to meet,
Nor stand in the road by his side.
She always knew well what his tendencies were;
Oh, his tastes were all grovelling and base!
And he might be a bastard! she'd scorn to appear
Where a trull, like his wife, show'd her face.
“Would I condescend,” said the dignified dame,
“To touch sich a minx with the tongs?
I better know how to preserve a good name,
And what to good breeding belongs.
A coarse tasteless tassel—a cheat, and no witch—
What a vile tawdry dress she has on!
But she'll keep his accounts—she can write; if he's rich,
They'll shine, till his money is gone;
And when it is gone he will rightly have learn'd
What ladies who scribble can do;
And wish all the books, but the Bible, were burn'd,
And their readers, (or one of them,) too.
I would not be spiteful, but; God mend them both!
It's the worse wish I wish them, I'm sure;
He's a good-for-nought, bandy-shank'd blackguard and sloth,
And she quite as pretty as pure.

329

I wish her no harm, with her blushes of brass;
But she may have six twins in three years,
And corrupt every farantly neighbour she has,
Setting them and their wives by the ears.
Poor Gudgeon! he's hook'd—by a child-bearing Pouse!
But sluts are best married to rakes:
May their pigs get the itch! and smoke stifle his house!
And her oven spoil all that it bakes!”

XV.

But now she drew nigh to the river again,
And the wood of moss'd birches so old;
While black over Stanage, with hail and with rain,
A tempest of April was roll'd:
Right and left, like a shaft-broken arrow of doom,
Unheard its red lightning was sent;
And, Up! the broad curtain of fire-lifted gloom,
From the summit, at intervals went:
Like many-tail'd snakes, with their heads on the ground,
And their many tails pendent in air,
In skeleton grimness, the aged trees around,
From the region of storms, and its black western mound,
Lean'd motionless, silent, and bare;

330

But her heart heard no voice, when the damp hollow wind
Through their dry branches drearily moan'd;
Nor felt she his touch, when it wetted each rind,
And the fast-coming thunder-cloud groan'd.
Like steel which (worm-red, and not glowing with flame,)
In water skill'd artisans dip,
Each big drop of rain seem'd to hiss as it came,
And smoke on her hot under-lip:
More black grew her choler, more gloomy the skies;
Then, a blast shook the old wizard wood—
Where, lo! the tall gipsy, with night in her eyes,
In the glare of the lightning-flash stood;
With night in her eyes, and the torrid sun's fire;
With power in her mien and her form;
Beautiful wildly—Like Love soothing Ire;
Or light on the clouds of the storm;
Or Knowledge, all calmly preparing the fall
Of the crime-honour'd throne of the sword;
Or Goodness, declaring through one unto all,
That the Father of all is the Lord.
As a poplar in summer, when gently the breeze
Wakes its twiglets, with whisperings sweet,
Amid the grey trunks of the hoar forest trees
Looks down on a flower at his feet;
So, a sable-hair'd child, with his eyes raised to hers,
And his rose-lips half open to speak,

331

And the bronze of the bloom of the rich mountain furze
Turning brown on his soft yellow cheek;
A child—her own miniature self—by the hand
She held, looking down on his smile,
With a fulness of love that no heart could withstand,
Save the heart of low cunning and guile.
For in her deep love there was sorrow as deep;
Ev'n there, on the spot where she stood,
(When the vale in October's dim mist lay asleep,
And the moon only watch'd o'er the wood,)
All silent, with none to assist or annoy,
And in anguish too mighty for tears,
She had buried a daughter—the twin of the boy
That made her acquainted with fears;
And while on the soul in his visage she gazed,
She saw in her heart, the last look
Of her lost second-born, with her wild eyes up raised,
As her flight to the angels she took.
But Susan saw nought in that beautiful child
Akin to her own barren heart;
No trust could his aspect, so trustfully wild,
To her all-doubting bosom impart;
She found in the might of the mother's dark face
Only dark indications of crime;
No grandeur, nor beauty! nor greatness, nor grace,
In her action serene and sublime.

332

She knew not that Love plants with roses the wind,
And builds on the seas as they roll;
That the waifs of the world can be gentle and kind,
And the homeless find home in the soul;
But kept the true faith, in her maxims, derived
From progenitors growing in grace,
And bred in-and-in, with the hornets they hived,
Till perfection was stamp'd on their race.

XVI.

“Did I stop thy clock, from past five until seven?”
Said the gipsy with ill-suppress'd laugh;
“By Ecclesfield chimes it is long past eleven:
Thou'rt too late, by an hour and a half.”

333

XVII.

“The Snake!” Susan cried, “there she hisses in scorn;
The Pickpurse! she stole my crown-piece;
The Rascal! I'll watch her; she means, I'll be sworn,
To steal Tommy Somerset's geese.
For who can be safe, when plain folks are ashamed
To sign for their names with a cross?
Our thieves, like Jem's Nan, for book-learning are famed;
And learn'd is yon rogue, to my loss!
No gipsy is she, but a thief from the town,
Where she borrow'd her books, as she borrow'd her gown.
But yonder's my John! he is waiting, I see,
To welcome his glove of soft silk:
Ev'n fools know the worth of a good wife, like me!
So, I'll hasten—and skim him his milk.”

XVIII.

Then, she puff'd up the hill, to the home of her love;
And there a strange scene was display'd;
For John the bewitch'd, though expecting his dove,
Sat at dinner, with Sarah, his maid,

334

In the neat pannel'd parlour, where Jem used to dine,
When he call'd on his way from the shows:
He was sipping Jem's cordial, the dame's brandied wine,
When Sarah in terror arose,
And in came meek Susan! who said not a word,
But threw her soil'd shawl o'er a chair;
Then, courteously smil'd on her fear-feigning lord,
And honour'd her maid with a stare.
A hot roasted fowl on the table was placed;
So, feeling of hunger the stings,
She took Sarah's chair, and to show her good taste,
Help'd herself to the breast and both wings.
But in token of peace, both the sidebones for John,
From under the straddle she carved;
And gave him both drumsticks, when both thighs were gone,
To feed the fat hen he had starved;
For Susan transform'd by a spirit of power,
Seem'd meek as a storm-cloud at rest;
And John the Bewitch'd, Unbewitch'd from that hour,
Was of maltsters and mortals the best!
He spoke not, but placidly welcom'd the change
Which Time, “that brings roses,” had brought;
Nor tardy was she to give evidence strange
That in her was a miracle wrought

335

Lo, when she had dined, to the garden she went,
Where she cull'd the first lilac of Spring,
The prize-polyanthus, with violets blent,
And primroses—tied in a string;
And placed them—and laugh'd—on the cloth of pale blue,
In a vase, sprigg'd with gold on dead white;
For all that is lovely and tasteful, she knew,
Fill'd his weak childish heart with delight.
Sweet Flowers, how they smiled through the thunder's bright tears,
On the maltster, self-scourged, though belied,
Who shook in sly glee, the brown wig of his years,
With the gipsy-changed dame at his side:
“Young wives and old husbands may sometimes agree,”
Said John, shaking hands with his mate;
“A lobsided ladder's a sort of a stee,”
Thought Susan, instructed, though late;
While the Father of Love, from the brightening west
Where Loxley and Rivilin rise,
Cast down on their waters, awake or at rest,
And on John's placid smile, and on Susan's fond breast,
The soul-soothing blue of his eyes;
And the redbreast peep'd in from the moss'd windowsill,
Where he sang in the sunshiny rain,
Till the thunder-rent cloud, o'er the rough eastern hill,

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Retiring in wrath, that spake thunder-toned still,
Left Stanage, serene as his Maker's high will,
In sunshine and glory again;
Proclaiming afar, in the silence of light,
His love of the lovely, the might of his might;
Proclaiming afar, that the Beautiful lives
With the good and the wise, in His Temple of Mind,
Still making life's strength of the peace that he gives
To the hearts of the gentle, the thoughtful, the kind.

Stannington is a village near Sheffield.

Stee is the Yorkshire name for ladder.

Rivilin is one of the rivers of Hallamshire, near Sheffield, where the blossoms of the willow are called palms.

The venerable wood here alluded to was destroyed in the year 1837, to win a bit of wretched land, at twice the cost of its value. One of its old trees bore an uncouth likeness to three snakes twisted together, with their heads on the ground, and their tails in the air. With more pain than pleasure, I saw, about a year ago, in the Stove of the Sheffield Botanical Gardens, fragments of this tree.

For a chapter on gipsies, see William Howitt's Rural Life in England, which has furnished me with some particulars of this description.

Fettled is an old Saxon word, signifying prepared. Thus, the Fettlers in an ironfoundry are preparers of the article for market.

EPISTLE.

Since Ellen Rendall deigns to say,
“Write me a poem!” I obey.
Weeds in exchange for flowers, I send;
For the best letter ever penn'd,
The best bad rhymes I can compose—
Not strength in beauty, like thy prose;
Oh, not the wealth of feeling fine
Enriching every phrase of thine,
The fresh fruit of a sad heart's truth,
Flush'd over with the bloom of youth!
Rhymed words I write, and fain would write
A poem, with a poet's might.
But I am bow'd with years;
And cares that shed no tears,

337

Bend me towards my kindred dust.
When sorrows come, because they must,
With lips of ice, and looks of clay,
To turn the spirit's tresses grey;
Can stooping age (though fain he would,)
Write earnest thoughts in “weeping blood,”
And o'er his winter spread the glow
Of warm June's dewy roses? No.
Who to the rain-cloud can restore
The bow that “vanish'd in the storm”?
The quench'd heart's fires return no more!
But what I can I will perform.
Long ere I read a thought of thine,
I plann'd a lay, call'd Etheline;
A lay that oft, in hope and joy,
I may have ponder'd when a boy.
Feebly commenced, and idly cast
Aside, to be redeem'd at last,
A thousand lines the song will end;
A hundred are already penn'd.
Lady! I will inscribe to thee
A tale of Love and Jealousy,
And old, old times—when life was young,
And wisdom taught what passion sung.
Thou, Ellen, thou shalt be my Muse!
Power not his own the bard shall use;
Thy young soul's beauty, wisdom, truth,
Shall wake in me a dream of youth;

338

As when a stripling, (skill'd to fling
The glory of a seraph's wing
O'er all the woful gloom and strife
That dully chequer human life,)
Placing, with careless grace and ease,
The time-worn Harp before his knees,
O'er funeral Autumn's pensive flowers
A shower of splinter'd sunbeams showers,
And charms the haunted region round
With ecstacies of sight and sound;
Or, in the soul its thunder waking,
Kindles within the heart that's breaking
Fire, born of darkness that weeps fire
And thoughts that turn men pale,
Bidding the fallen still aspire,
Though still to fail;
And like the Adwick of my strain,
Each doom'd Prometheus smile at pain;
Or, school'd his dire reward to meet,
Die with sad pride, as Cæsar died
At imaged Pompey's feet.