And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve,
While huddling clouds of purple dye
Gloomy hang the western sky.
Crows crowd croaking over-head,
Hastening to the woods to bed.
Cooing sits the lonely dove,
Calling home her absent love.
With “Kirchup! kirchup!” ’mong the wheats,
Partridge distant partridge greets;
Beckoning hints to those that roam,
That guide the squander’d covey home.
Swallows check their winding flight,
And twittering on the chimney light.
Round the pond the martins flirt,
Their snowy breasts bedaub’d with dirt,
While the mason, ’neath the slates,
Each mortar-bearing bird awaits:
By art untaught, each labouring spouse
Curious daubs his hanging house.
Bats flit by in hood and cowl;
Through the barn-hole pops the owl;
From the hedge, in drowsy hum,
Heedless buzzing beetles bum,
Haunting every bushy place,
Flopping in the labourer’s face.
Now the snail hath made his ring;
And the moth with snowy wing
Circles round in winding whirls,
Through sweet evening’s sprinkled pearls
On each nodding rush besprent;
Dancing on from bent to bent:
Now to downy grasses clung,
Resting for a while he’s hung;
Strong to ferry o’er the stream,
Vanishing as flies a dream:
Playful still his hours to keep,
Till his time has come to sleep;
In tall grass, by fountain-head,
Weary then he drops to bed.
From the hay-cock’s moisten’d heaps
Startled frogs take vaunting leaps;
And along the shaven mead,
Jumping travellers, they proceed:
Quick the dewy grass divides,
Moistening sweet their speckled sides;
From the grass or flowret’s cup,
Quick the dew-drop bounces up.
Now the blue fog creeps along,
And the bird’s forgot his song:
Flowers now sleep within their hoods;
Daisies button into buds;
From soiling dew the butter-cup
Shuts his golden jewels up;
And the rose and woodbine they
Wait again the smiles of day.
’Neath the willow’s wavy boughs,
Dolly, singing, milks hers cows;
While the brook, as bubbling by,
Joins in murmuring melody.
Dick and Dob, with jostling joll,
Homeward drag the rumbling roll;
Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait,
Lolls him o’er the pasture gate.
Swains to fold their sheep begin;
Dogs loud barking drive them in.
Hedgers now along the road
Homeward bend beneath their load;
And from the long furrow’d seams,
Ploughmen loose their weary teams:
Ball, with urging lashes weal’d.
Still so slow to drive a-field,
Eager blundering from the plough,
Wants no whip to drive him now;
At the stable-door he stands,
Looking round for friendly hands
To loose the door its fast’ning pin,
And let him with his corn begin.
Round the yard, a thousand ways
Beasts in expectation gaze,
Catching at the loads of hay
Passing fodd’rers tug away.
Hogs with grumbling, deaf’ning noise
Bother round the server boys;
And, far and near, the motley group
Anxious claim their suppering-up.
From the rest, a blest release,
Gabbling home, the quarrelling geese
Seek their warm straw-litter’d shed,
And, waddling, prate away to bed.
’Nighted by unseen delay,
Poking hens, that lose their way,
On the hovel’s rafters rise,
Slumbering there, the fox’s prize.
Now the cat has ta’en her seat,
With her tail curl’d round her feet;
Patiently she sits to watch
Sparrows fighting on the thatch.
Now Doll brings th’ expected pails.
And dogs begin to wag their tails;
With strokes and pats they’re welcom’d in
And they with looking wants begin:
Slove in the milk-pail brimming o’er,
She pops their dish behind the door.
Prone to mischief boys are met,
’Neath the eaves the ladder’s set,
Sly they climb in softest tread,
To catch the sparrow on his bed,
Massacred, O cruel pride!
Dash against the ladder’s side.
Curst barbarians! pass me by:
Come not, Turks, my cottage nigh;
Sure my sparrow’s are my own,
Let ye then my birds alone.
Come poor birds! from foes severe
Fearless come, you’re welcome here;
My heart yearns at fate like yours,
A sparrow’s life’s as sweet as ours.
Hardy clowns! grudge not the wheat
Which hunger forces birds to eat:
Your blinded eyes, worst foes to you,
Can’t see the good which sparrows do.
Did not poor birds with watching rounds
Pick up the insects from your grounds,
Did they not tend your rising grain,
You might then sow to reap in vain.
Thus Providence, right understood,
Whose end and aim is doing good,
Sends nothing here without its use;
Though ignorance loads it with abuse;
And fools despise the blessing sent,
And mock the Giver’s good intent--
O God! let me what’s good pursue,
Let me the same to others do
As I’d have others do to me,
And learn at least humanity.
Dark and darker glooms the sky;
Sleep ’gins close the labourer’s eye:
Dobson leaves his greensward seat,
Neighbours where they neighbours meet
Crops to praise and work in hand,
And battles tell from foreign land.
While his pipe is puffing out,
Sue he’s putting to the rout,
Gossiping, who takes delight
To shool her knitting out at night,
And back-bite neighbours ’bout the town--
Who’s got new caps, and who a gown,
And many a thing, her evil eye
Can see they don’t come honest by.
Chattering at a neighbour’s house,
She hears call out her frowning spouse
Prepar’d to start, she soodles home,
Her knitting twirling o’er her thumb,
As, loth to leave, afraid to stay,
She bawls her story all the way:
The tale so fraught with ’ticing charms.
Her apron folded o’er her arms,
She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain,
To end as evening comes again;
And in the cottage gangs with dread
To meet old Dobson’s timely frown,
Who grumbling sits, prepar’d for bed,
While she stands chelping ’bout the town.
The night-wind now, with sooty wings,
In the cotter’s chimney sings;
Now, as stretching o’er the bed,
Soft I raise my drowsy head,
Listening to the ushering charms
That shake the elm tree’s mossy arms;
Till sweet slumbers stronger creep,
Deeper darkness stealing round,
Then, as rock’d, I sink to sleep,
’Mid the wild wind’s lulling sound.
PATTY
Ye swampy falls of pasture ground,
And rushy spreading greens;
Ye rising swells in brambles bound,
And freedom’s wilder’d scenes;
I’ve trod ye oft, and love ye dear,
And kind was fate to let me;
On you I found my all, for here
’Twas first my Patty met me.
Flow on, thou gently plashing stream,
O’er weed-beds wild and rank;
Delighted I’ve enjoy’d my dream
Upon thy mossy bank:
Bemoistening many a weedy stem,
I’ve watched thee wind so clearly;
And on thy bank I found the gem
That makes me love thee dearly.
Thou wilderness, so rudely gay;
Oft as I seek thy plain,
Oft as I wend my steps away,
And meet my joys again,
And brush the weaving branches by
Of briars and thorns so matty;
So oft Reflection warms a sigh,--
Here first I meet my Patty.
PATTY OF THE VALE
Where lonesome woodlands close surrounding
Mark the spot a solitude,
And nature’s uncheck’d scenes abounding
Form a prospect wild and rude,
A cottage cheers the spot so glooming,
Hid in the hollow of the dale,
Where, in youth and beauty blooming
Lives sweet Patty of the Vale.
Gay as the lambs her cot surrounding,
Sporting wild the shades among,
O’er the hills and bushes bounding,
Artless, innocent, and young,
Fresh, as blush of morning roses
Ere the mid-day suns prevail,
Fair as lily-bud uncloses,
Blooms sweet Patty of the Vale.
Low and humble though her station,
Dress though mean she’s doom’d to wear,
Few superiors in the nation
With her beauty can compare.
What are riches?--not worth naming,
Though with some they may prevail;
Their’s be choice of wealth proclaiming,
Mine is Patty of the Vale.
Fools may fancy wealth and fortune
Join to make a happy pair,
And for such the god importune,
With full many a fruitless prayer:
I, their pride and wealth disdaining
Should my humble hopes prevail,
Happy then, would cease complaining,
Blest with Patty of the Vale.
MY LOVE, THOU ART A NOSEGAY SWEET
My love, thou art a nosegay sweet,
My sweetest flower I prove thee;
And pleas’d I pin thee to my breast,
And dearly do I love thee.
And when, my nosegay, thou shalt fade,
As sweet a flower thou’lt prove thee;
And as thou witherest on my breast,
For beauty past I’ll love thee.
And when, my nosegay, thou shalt die,
And heaven’s flower shalt prove thee;
My hopes shall follow to the sky,
And everlasting love thee.
THE MEETING
Here we meet, too soon to part,
Here to leave will raise a smart,
Here I’ll press thee to my heart,
Where none have place above thee:
Here I vow to love thee well,
And could words unseal the spell,
Had but language strength to tell,
I’d say how much I love thee.
Here, the rose that decks thy door,
Here, the thorn that spreads thy bow’r,
Here, the willow on the moor,
The birds at rest above thee,
Had they light of life to see,
Sense of soul like thee and me,
Soon might each a witness be
How doatingly I love thee.
By the night-sky’s purple ether,
And by even’s sweetest weather,
That oft has blest us both together,--
The moon that shines above thee,
And shews thy beauteous cheek so blooming,
And by pale age’s winter coming,
The charms, and casualties of woman,
I will for ever love thee.
EFFUSION
Ah, little did I think in time that’s past,
By summer burnt, or numb’d by winter’s blast,
Delving the ditch a livelihood to earn,
Or lumping corn out in a dusty barn;
With aching bones returning home at night,
And sitting down with weary hand to write;
Ah, little did I think, as then unknown,
Those artless rhymes I even blush’d to own
Would be one day applauded and approv’d,
By learning notic’d, and by genius lov’d.
God knows, my hopes were many, but my pain
Damp’d all the prospects which I hop’d to gain;
I hardly dar’d to hope.--Thou corner-chair,
In which I’ve oft slung back in deep despair,
Hadst thou expression, thou couldst easy tell
The pains and all that I have known too well:
’Twould be but sorrow’s tale, yet still ’twould be
A tale of truth, and passing sweet to me.
How oft upon my hand I’ve laid my head,
And thought how poverty deform’d our shed;
Look’d on each parent’s face I fain had cheer’d
Where sorrow triumph’d, and pale want appear’d;
And sigh’d, and hop’d, and wish’d some day would come,
When I might bring a blessing to their home,--
That toil and merit comforts had in store,
To bid the tear defile their cheeks no more.
Who that has feelings would not wish to be
A friend to parents, such as mine to me,
Who in distress broke their last crust in twain,
And though want pinch’d, the remnant broke again,
And still, if craving of their scanty bread,
Gave their last mouthful that I might be fed?
Nor for their own wants tear-drops follow’d free,
Worse anguish stung--they had no more for me,
And now hope’s sun is looking brighter out,
And spreading thin the clouds of fear and doubt,
That long in gloomy sad suspense to me
Hid the long-waited smiles I wish’d to see.
And now, my parents, helping you is sweet,--
The rudest havoc fortune could complete;
A piteous couple, little blest with friends,
Where pain and poverty have had their ends.
I’ll be thy crutch, my father, lean on me;
Weakness knits stubborn while its bearing thee;
And hard shall fall the shock of fortune’s frown
To eke thy sorrows, ere it breaks me down.
My mother, too, thy kindness shall be met,
And ere I’m able will I pay the debt;
For what thou’st done, and what gone through for me,
My last-earn’d sixpence will I break with thee:
And when my dwindled sum won’t more divide,
Then take it all--to fate I’ll leave the rest;
In helping thee I’ll always feel a pride,
Nor think I’m happy till ye both are blest.
BALLAD
A weedling wild, on lonely lea,
My evening rambles chanc’d to see;
And much the weedling tempted me
To crop its tender flower:
Expos’d to wind and heavy rain,
Its head bow’d lowly on the plain;
And silently it seem’d in pain
Of life’s endanger’d hour.
“And wilt thou bid my bloom decay,
And crop my flower, and me betray?
And cast my injur’d sweets away,”--
Its silence seemly sigh’d--
“A moment’s idol of thy mind?
And is a stranger so unkind,
To leave a shameful root behind,
Bereft of all its pride?”
And so it seemly did complain;
And beating fell the heavy rain;
And how it droop’d upon the plain,
To fate resign’d to fall:
My heart did melt at its decline,
And “Come,” said I, “thou gem divine,
My fate shall stand the storm with thine:”
So took the root and all.
SONG
One gloomy eve I roam’d about
’Neath Oxey’s hazel bowers,
While timid hares were darting out,
To crop the dewy flowers;
And soothing was the scene to me,
Right pleased was my soul,
My breast was calm as summer’s sea
When waves forget to roll.
But short was even’s placid smile,
My startled soul to charm,
When Nelly lightly skipt the stile,
With milk-pail on her arm:
One careless look on me she flung,
As bright as parting day:
And like a hawk from covert sprung,
It pounc’d my peace away.
THE GIPSY’S CAMP
How oft on Sundays, when I’d time to tramp,
My rambles led me to a gipsy’s camp,
Where the real effigy of midnight hags,
With tawny smoked flesh and tatter’d rags,
Uncouth-brimm’d hat, and weather-beaten cloak,
’Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak,
Along the greensward uniforming pricks
Her pliant bending hazel’s arching sticks;
While round-topt bush or briar-entangled hedge,
Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge,
Keep off the bothering bustle of the wind,
And give the best retreat she hopes to find.
How oft I’ve bent me o’er her fire and smoke,
To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke,
While the old Sybil forg’d her boding clack,
Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back;
Oft on my hand her magic coin’s been struck,
And hoping chink, she talk’d of morts of luck:
And still, as boyish hopes did first agree,
Mingled with fears to drop the fortune’s fee,
I never fail’d to gain the honours sought,
And Squire and Lord were purchas’d with a groat.
But as man’s unbelieving taste came round,
She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground,
Wip’d bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist,
While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist,
Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate,
Which like as footboys on her actions wait,
That fortune’s scale should to my sorrow turn
And I one day the rash neglect should mourn;
That good to bad should change, and I should be
Lost to this world and all eternity;
That poor as Job I should remain unblest;--
(Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!)
Of not a hoarded farthing be possest,
And when all’s done, be shov’d to hell at last!
TO THE CLOUDS
O painted clouds! sweet beauties of the sky,
How have I view’d your motion and your rest
When like fleet hunters ye have left mine eye,
In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest;
Or in your threaten’d thunder’s grave black vest,
Like black deep waters slowly moving by,
Awfully striking the spectator’s breast
With your Creator’s dread sublimity,
As admiration mutely views your storms.
And I do love to see you idly lie,
Painted by heav’n as various as your forms,
Pausing upon the eastern mountain high,
As morn awakes with spring’s wood-harmony;
And sweeter still, when in your slumbers sooth
You hang the western arch o’er day’s proud eye:
Still as the even-pool, uncurv’d and smooth,
My gazing soul has look’d most placidly;
And higher still devoutly wish’d to strain,
To wipe your shrouds and sky’s blue blinders by,
With all the warmness of a moon-struck brain,--
To catch a glimpse of Him who bids you reign,
And view the dwelling of all majesty.
THE WOODMAN
DEDICATED TO THE REV. J. KNOWLES HOLLAND.
The beating snow-clad bell, with sounding dead,
Hath clanked four--the woodman’s wak’d again;
And, as he leaves his comfortable bed,
Dithers to view the rimy feather’d pane,
And shrugs, and wishes--but ’tis all in vain:
The bed’s warm comforts he most now forego;
His family that oft till eight hath lain,
Without his labour’s wage could not do so.
And glad to make them blest he shuffles through the snow.
The early winter’s morn is dark as pitch,
The wary wife from tinder brought at night
With flint and steel, and may a sturdy twitch,
Sits up in bed to strike her man a light;
And as the candle shows the rapturous sight,
Aside his wife his rosy sleeping boy,
He smacks his lips with exquisite delight,
With all a father’s feelings, father’s joy,
Then bids his wife good-bye, and hies to his employ.
His breakfast water-porridge, humble food;
A barley-crust he in his wallet flings;
On this he toils and labours in the wood,
And chops his faggot, twists his band, and sings,
As happily as princes and as kings
With all their luxury:--and blest is he,
Can but the little which his labour brings
Make both ends meet, and from long debts keep free,
And neat and clean preserve his numerous family.
Far o’er the dreary fields the woodland lies,
Rough is the journey which he daily goes;
The woolly clouds, that hang the frowning skies,
Keep winnowing down their drifting sleet and snows,
And thro’ his doublet keen the north wind blows;
While hard as iron the cemented ground,
And smooth as glass the glibbed pool is froze;
His nailed boots with clenching tread rebound,
And dithering echo starts and mocks the clamping sound.
The woods how gloomy in a winter’s morn!
The crows and ravens even cease to croak,
The little birds sit chittering on the thorn,
The pies scarce chatter when they leave the oak,
Startled from slumber by the woodman’s stroke;
The milk-maid’s song is drown’d in gloomy care,
And while the village chimneys curl their smoke,
She milks, and blows, and hastens to be there;
And nature all seems sad, and dying in despair.
The quirking rabbit scarcely leaves her hole,
But rolls in torpid slumbers all the day;
The fox is loth to ’gin a long patrol,
And scouts the woods, content with meaner prey;
The hare so frisking, timid once and gay,
’Hind the dead thistle hurkles from the view,
Nor scarce is scar’d though in the traveller’s way,
Though waffling curs and shepherd-dogs pursue:
So winter’s ragged power affects all nature through.
What different changes winter’s frowns supply:
The clown no more a loitering hour beguiles,
Nor gaping tracks the clouds along the sky,
As when buds blossom, and the warm sun smiles,
And “Lawrence wages bids” on hills and stiles;
Banks, stiles, and flowers, and skies, no longer charm;
Deep drifting snow each summer-seat defiles;
With hasty blundering step and folded arm
He glad the stable seeks, his frost-nip nose to warm.
The shepherd haunts no more his spreading oak,
Nor on the sloping pond-head lies at lair;
The arbour he once wattled up is broke,
And left unworthy of his future care;
The ragged plundering stickers have been there,
And pilfer’d it away; he passes by
His summer dwelling, desolate and bare,
And ne’er so much as turns a conscious eye,
But gladly seeks his fire, and shuns th’ inclement sky.
The scene is cloth’d in snow from morn till night,
The woodman’s loth his chilly tools to seize;
The crows unroosting as he comes in sight
Shake down the feathery burden from the trees;
To look at things around he’s fit to freeze:
Scar’d from her perch the fluttering pheasant flies:
His hat and doublet whiten by degrees,
He quakes, looks round, and pats his hands and sighs,
And wishes to himself that the warm sun would rise.
The robin, tamest of the feather’d race,
Soon as he hears the woodman’s sounding chops,
With ruddy bosom and a simple face
Around his old companion fearless hops,
And there for hours in pleas’d attention stops:
The woodman’s heart is tender and humane
And at his meals he many a crumble drops.
Thanks to thy generous feelings, gentle swain;
And what thy pity gives, shall not be given in vain.
The woodman gladly views the closing day,
To see the sun drop down behind the wood,
Sinking in clouds deep blue or misty grey,
Round as a football and as red as blood:
The pleasing prospect does his heart much good,
Though ’tis not his such beauties to admire;
He hastes to fill his bags with billet-wood,
Well-pleas’d from the chill prospect to retire,
To seek his corner chair, and warm snug cottage fire.
And soon as dusky even hovers round,
And the white frost ’gins crizzle pond and brook,
The little family are glimpsing round,
And from the door dart many a wistful look;
The supper’s ready stewing on the hook:
And every foot that clampers down the street
Is for the coming father’s step mistook;
O’erjoy’d are they when he their eyes doth meet,
Bent ’neath his load, snow-clad, as white as any sheet.
I think I see him seated in his chair,
Taking the bellows up the fire to blow;
I think I hear him joke and chatter there,
Telling his children news they wish to know;
With leather leggings on, that stopt the snow,
And broad-brimm’d hat uncouthly shapen round:
Nor would he, I’ll be bound, if it were so,
Give twopence for the chance, could it be found,
At that same hour to be the king of England crown’d.
The woodman smokes, the brats in mirth and glee,
And artless prattle, even’s hour beguile,
While love’s last pledge runs scrambling up his knee,
The nightly comfort from his weary toil,
His chuff cheeks dimpling in a fondling smile;
He claims his kiss, and says his scraps of prayer;
Begging his daddy’s pretty song the while,
Playing with his jacket-buttons and his hair;--
And thus in wedlock’s joys the labourer drowns his care.
And as most labourers knowingly pretend
By certain signs to judge the weather right,
As oft from “Noah’s ark” great floods descend,
And “buried moons” foretell great storms at night,
In such-like things the woodman took delight;
And ere he went to bed would always ken
Whether the sky was gloom’d or stars shone bright,
Then went to comfort’s arms till morn, and then
As cheery as the sun resum’d his toils agen.
And ere he slept he always breath’d a prayer,
“I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou to-day didst give
Sufficient strength to toil; and blest Thy care,
And thank Thee still for what I may receive:
And, O Almighty God! while I still live,
Ere my eyes open on the last day’s sun,
Prepare Thou me this wicked world to leave,
And fit my passage ere my race is run;
’Tis all I beg, O Lord! Thy heavenly will be done.”
Holland; to thee this humble ballad’s sent,
Who for the poor man’s welfare oft hast pray’d;
Whose tongue did ne’er belie its good intent,
Preacher, as well in practice, as in trade--
Alas, too often money’s business made!
O may the wretch, that’s still in darkness living,
The Bible’s comforts hear by thee display’d;
And many a woodman’s family, forgiven,
Have cause for blessing thee that led their way to heaven.
RURAL EVENING
The sun now sinks behind the woodland green,
And twittering spangles glow the leaves between,
So bright and dazzling on the eye it plays
As if noon’s heat had kindled to a blaze,
But soon it dims in red and heavier hues,
And shows wild fancy cheated in her views.
A mist-like moisture rises from the ground,
And deeper blueness stains the distant round.
The eye each moment, as it gazes o’er,
Still loses objects which it mark’d before;
The woods at distance changing like to clouds,
And spire-points croodling under evening’s shrouds;
Till forms of things, and hues of leaf and flower,
In deeper shadows, as by magic power,
With light and all, in scarce-perceiv’d decay,
Put on mild evening’s sober garb of grey.
Now in the sleepy gloom that blackens round
Dies many a lulling hum of rural sound,
From cottage door, farm-yard and dusty lane,
Where home the cart-house tolters with the swain.
Or padded holm, where village boys resort,
Bawling enraptur’d o’er their evening sport,
Till night awakens superstition’s dread
And drives them prisoners to a restless bed.
Thrice happy eve of days no more to me!
Whoever thought such change belong’d to thee?
When, like to boys whom now thy gloom surrounds,
I chas’d the stag, or play’d at fox-and-hounds,
Or wander’d down the lane with many a mate
To play at see-saw on the pasture-gate,
Or on the threshold of some cottage sat
To watch the flittings of the shrieking bat,
Who, seemly pleas’d to mock our treacherous view,
Would even swoop and touch us as he flew,
And vainly still our hopes to entertain
Would stint his route, and circle us again,--
Till, wearied out with many a coaxing call
Which boyish superstition loves to bawl,
His shrill song shrieking he betook to flight,
And left us puzzled in short-sighted night.
Those days have fled me, as from them they steal:
And I’ve felt losses they must shortly feel;
But sure such ends make every bosom sore,
To think of pleasures we must meet no more.