Beguiles the rustic’s closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing faggot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coil’d, and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife’s spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadows throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear’st, with rump in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like madam in her tantrums high:
Tho’ ne’er a madam of them all
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger’s gaze.
Doth power in varied measures dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted be the modern muse
Expression technical to use,)
These mock the deftest rhymer’s skill,
But poor in art, tho’ rich in will.
The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains,
To do what costs thee little pains,
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopp’d the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too _thy_ feats repay:
For then, beneath some urchin’s hand,
With modest pride thou tak’st thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy purr;
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;
While softly from thy whisker’d cheek,
Thy half-clos’d eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfetter’d fancy, fly
Thro’ airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with alter’d air,
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper’d toe.
The widow’d dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter’d page,
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravell’d skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp’s unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol’st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.
Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss,
The magic power to charm us thus?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney-corner snugly fill,
A lion darting on the prey,
A tiger at his ruthless play?
Or is it, that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem view’d with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil’d,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom’st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favour’d playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove
When time hath spoil’d thee of our love;
Still be thou deem’d, by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish’d oft with savoury food.
Nor when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;
But gently borne on goodman’s spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid,
And children show, with glistening eyes,
The place where poor old Pussy lies.
_83. Song_
The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock’s in the sky,
And colley on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
Oh no! sad and slow!
I hear nae welcome sound;
The shadow of our trysting-bush,
It wears so slowly round!
My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I lo’e best,
Alack! I canna hear!
Oh no! sad and slow!
The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.
I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi’ clacking din;
And Luckey scolding frae the door,
To bring the bairnies in.
Oh no! sad and slow!
These are nae the sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting-bush,
It creeps sae drearily!
I coft yestreen from chapman Tam
A snood o’ bonnie blue,
And promis’d when our trysting cam,
To tie it round her brow.
Oh no! sad and slow!
The time it winna pass!
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tether’d on the grass.
O now I see her on the way,
She’s past the Witch’s knowe;
She’s climbing up the Brownie’s brae;
My heart is in a lowe.
Oh no! sad and slow!
’Tis glamrie I hae seen;
The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e’en.
My book o’ grace I’ll try to read,
Tho’ con’d wi’ little skill;
When colley barks, I’ll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.
Oh no! ’tis nae so!
The time will ne’er be gane!
The shadow of the trysting-bush
Is fix’d like ony stane.
_84. The Outlaw_
The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,
The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.
The wild-fire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray,
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!
It is our opening day.
Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And clos’d is every flower,
And winking tapers faintly peep
High from my Lady’s bower;
Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken
Shrink on their murky way,
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!
It is our opening day.
Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof nor latchèd door,
Nor kind mate bound by holy vow
To bless a good man’s store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day,
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men!
And use it as ye may.
CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE
1765-1834
_85. A Riddle on the Letter H_
’Twas in heaven pronounced—it was mutter’d in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confess’d.
’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death:
Presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown’d.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion is drown’d.
’Twill not soften the heart; and tho’ deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower,
Ah, breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.
MARY LAMB
1764-1847
_86. A Child_
A child’s a plaything for an hour;
Its pretty tricks we try
For that or for a longer space—
Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one that to itself
All seasons could control;
That would have mock’d the sense of pain
Out of a grievèd soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber-up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways
Then life and all shall cease.
CAROLINE, LADY NAIRNE
1766-1845
_87. The Land o’ the Leal_
I’m wearin’ awa’, John,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,
I’m wearin’ awa’
To the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae sorrow there, John:
There’s neither cauld nor care, John,
The day is aye fair
In the land o’ the leal.
Our bonnie bairn’s there, John;
She was baith guid and fair, John;
And, oh! we grudged her sair
To the land o’ the leal.
But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,
And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John,
The joy that’s aye to last
In the land o’ the leal.
Sae dear that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu’ man e’er brought
To the land o’ the leal.
O dry your glistening e’e, John!
My saul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me
To the land o’ the leal.
O haud ye leal and true, John;
Your day it’s wearin’ through, John,
And I’ll welcome you
To the land o’ the leal.
Now fareyeweel, my ain John:
This warld’s cares are vain, John;
We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain,
In the land o’ the leal.
_88. The Auld House_
Oh, the auld house, the auld house
What though the rooms were wee?
Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,
And bairnies fu’ o’ glee!
The wild rose and the jessamine
Still hang upon the wa’—
How mony cherished memories
Do they, sweet flowers, reca’!
Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird,
Sae canty, kind, and crouse!
How mony did he welcome to
His ain wee dear auld house!
And the leddy, too, sae genty,
There sheltered Scotland’s heir,
And clipt a lock wi’ her ain hand
Frae his lang yellow hair.
The mavis still doth sweetly sing,
The blue-bells sweetly blaw;
The bonnie Earn’s clear winding still,
But the auld house is awa’.
The auld house, the auld house!
Deserted though ye be,
There ne’er can be a new house
Will seem sae fair to me.
Still flourishing the auld pear tree,
The bairnies liked to see;
And oh, how aften did they speir
When ripe they a’ wad be!
The voices sweet, the wee bit feet
Aye rinnin’ here and there;
The merry shout—oh! whiles we greet
To think we’ll hear nae mair.
For they are a’ wide scattered now,
Some to the Indies gane,
And ane, alas! to her lang hame;
Not here we’ll meet again.
The Kirkyaird! the Kirkyaird!
Wi’ flowers o’ every hue,
Sheltered by the holly’s shade,
An’ the dark sombre yew.
The setting sun, the setting sun,
How glorious it gaed doun!
The cloudy splendour raised our hearts
To cloudless skies abune!
The auld dial, the auld dial!
It tauld how time did pass:
The wintry winds ha’e dung it doun,
Now hid ’mang weeds and grass.
_89. Caller Herrin’_
_Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?_
_They’re bonnie fish and halesome farin’:_
_Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’,_
_New drawn frae the Forth?_
When ye were sleepin’ on your pillows,
Dreamed ye aught o’ our puir fellows
Darkling as they faced the billows,
A’ to fill the woven willows?
Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?
They’re no brought here without brave darin’,
Buy my caller herrin’,
Hauled through wind and rain.
Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?
Oh, ye may ca’ them vulgar farin’;
Wives and mithers, ’maist despairin’,
Ca’ them lives o’ men.
When the creel o’ herrin’ passes,
Ladies, clad in silks and laces,
Gather in their braw pelisses,
Cast their heads, and screw their faces.
Caller herrin’s no got lightly;
Ye can trip the spring fu’ tightly;
Spite o’ tauntin’, flauntin’, flingin’,
Gow[3] has set you a’ a-singin’.
Neebour wives, now tent my tellin’
When the bonnie fish ye’re sellin’,
At ae word be in your dealin’,
Truth will stand when a’ thing’s failin’.
FOOTNOTES
[3] A famous fiddler.
_90. Heavenward_
Would you be young again?
So would not I—
One tear to memory giv’n,
Onward I’d hie.
Life’s dark flood forded o’er,
All but at rest on shore,
Say, would you plunge once more,
With home so nigh?
If you might, would you now
Retrace your way?
Wander through thorny wilds,
Faint and astray?
Night’s gloomy watches fled,
Morning all beaming red,
Hope’s smiles around us shed,
Heavenward—away.
Where are they gone, of yore
My best delight?
Dear and more dear, tho’ now
Hidden from sight.
Where they rejoice to be,
There is the land for me;
Fly time—fly speedily!
Come, life and light.
HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS
1762-1827
_91. Sonnet to Twilight_
Meek Twilight! soften the declining day,
And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves;
When o’er the mountain slow descends the ray
That gives to silence the deserted groves.
Ah, let the happy court the morning still,
When, in her blooming loveliness array’d,
She bids fresh beauty light the vale, or hill,
And rapture warble in the vocal shade.
Sweet is the odour of the morning’s flower,
And rich in melody her accents rise;
Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour,
At which her blossoms close, her music dies—
For then, while languid nature droops her head,
She wakes the tear ’tis luxury to shed.
_92. Sonnet to Hope_
O ever skill’d to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,
That Fancy’s radiance, Friendship’s precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune’s gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Which once with dear illusions charm’d my eye,
O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!
ANNE M’VICAR GRANT OF LAGGAN
1755-1838
_93. Postscript_
Jean, fetch that heap of tangled yarn,
And bring those stockings here to darn,
And get from Anne the dairy keys,
That I may go and count my cheese;
To every useful occupation,
Befitting of my place or station,
I’ll henceforth dedicate my time,
And if again I write in rhyme,
’Twill be a shrewd severe lampoon
On country wives who fly to town,
And leave their dairy and relations,
To curl their hair and follow fashions:
Or else an acrimonious satire
On matrons who, in spite of Nature,
With common useful duties quarrel,
To plant in vain the barren laurel.
AMELIA OPIE
1769-1853
_94. A Lament_
There was an eye whose partial glance
Could ne’er my numerous failings see;
There was an ear that heard untired
When others spoke in praise of me.
There was a heart time only taught
With warmer love for me to burn;
A heart whene’er from home I roved
Which fondly pined for my return.
There was a lip which always breathed
E’en short farewells in tones of sadness;
There was a voice whose eager sound
My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness.
There was a mind whose vigorous power
On mine its own effulgence threw,
And called my humble talents forth,
While thence its dearest joys it drew.
There was a love which for my weal
With anxious fears would overflow;
Which wept, which pray’d for me, and sought
From future ills to guard—But now!—
That eye is closed, and deaf that ear,
That lip and voice are mute for ever;
And cold that heart of anxious love,
Which Death alone from mine could sever:
And lost to me that ardent mind,
Which loved my various tasks to see;
And oh! of all the praise I gain’d
His was the dearest far to me!
Now I unloved, uncheered, _alone_,
Life’s weary wilderness must tread,
Till He who heals the broken heart
In mercy bids me join the dead.
CAROLINE SOUTHEY
1786-1854
_95. To Death_
Come not in terrors clad, to claim
An unresisting prey:
Come like an evening shadow, Death!
So stealthily, so silently!
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath;
Then willingly, O willingly,
With thee I’ll go away.
What need to clutch with iron grasp
What gentlest touch may take?
What need with aspect dark to scare,
So awfully, so terribly,
The weary soul would hardly care,
Call’d quietly, call’d tenderly,
From thy dread power to break?
’Tis not as when thou markest out
The young, the blest, the gay,
The loved, the loving—they who dream
So happily, so hopefully;
Then harsh thy kindest call may seem,
And shrinkingly, reluctantly,
The summon’d may obey.
But I have drunk enough of life—
The cup assign’d to me
Dash’d with a little sweet at best,
So scantily, so scantily—
To know full well that all the rest
More bitterly, more bitterly,
Drugg’d to the last will be.
And I may live to pain some heart
That kindly cares for me:
To pain, but not to bless, O Death!
Come quietly—come lovingly—
And shut mine eyes and steal my breath;
Then willingly, O willingly,
I’ll go away with thee.
EMMA (HART) WILLARD
1787-1870
_96. Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep_
Rocked in the cradle of the deep
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save.
I know Thou wilt not slight my call,
For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall;
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
When in the dead of night I lie
And gaze upon the trackless sky,
The star-bespangled heavenly scroll,
The boundless waters as they roll,—
I feel Thy wondrous power to save
From perils of the stormy wave:
Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I calmly rest and soundly sleep.
And such the trust that still were mine,
Though stormy winds swept o’er the brine,
Or though the tempest’s fiery breath
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death.
In ocean cave, still safe with Thee
The germ of immortality!
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
1793-1835
_97. Night-Blowing Flowers_
Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly,
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy,
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;
To solemn things and deep,
To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all purified
From earth, ye seem allied,
O dedicated flowers!
Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling,
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined;
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing,
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind.
So doth love’s dreaming heart
Dwell from the throng apart,
And but to shades disclose
The inmost thought, which glows
With its pure life entwined.
Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.
So doth lone prayer arise
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.
_98. Casabianca_
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm—
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike, form.
The flames rolled on—he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud:—‘Say, father, say
If yet my task is done!’
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
‘Speak, father!’ once again he cried,
‘If I may yet be gone!’
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair;
And shouted yet once more aloud,
‘My father! must I stay?’
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above that gallant child
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder-sound—
The boy—Oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!—
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
_99. A Dirge_
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now!
Ee’n while with us thy footstep trod,
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!—
They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die.
SARA COLERIDGE
1802-1852
_100. O Sleep, my Babe_
O sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave,
Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring strays
To drink thy balmy breath,
And sigh one long farewell.
Soon shall it mourn above thy wat’ry bed,
And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore,
Deep murm’ring in reproach,
Thy sad untimely fate.
Ere those dear eyes had open’d to the light,
In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold,
O waken’d but to sleep,
Whence it can wake no more!
A thousand and a thousand silken leaves
The tufted beech unfolds in early spring,
All clad in tenderest green,
All of the self-same shape;
A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet,
Each year sends forth, yet every mother views
Her last not least beloved
Like its dear self alone.
Its musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped
The face to-morrow’s sun shall first reveal,
No heart hath e’er conceived
What love that face will bring.
O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the gale
To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath,
As when it deeply sighs
O’er autumn’s latest bloom.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
1806-1861
_101. To George Sand. I. A Desire_
Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man,
Self-called George Sand! whose soul, amid the lions
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance,
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can!
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance
Of thine own nobler nature’s strength and science,
Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place
With holier light! that thou to woman’s claim,
And man’s, mightst join beside the angel’s grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame,—
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace,
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.
_102. II. A Recognition_
True genius, but true woman! dost deny
Thy woman’s nature with a manly scorn,
And break away the gauds and armlets worn
By weaker women in captivity?
Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry
Is sobbed in by a woman’s voice forlorn!—
Thy woman’s hair, my sister, all unshorn,
Floats back dishevelled strength in agony,
Disproving thy man’s name! and while before
The world thou burnest in a poet-fire,
We see thy woman-heart beat evermore
Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher,
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore,
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire.
_Sonnets from the Portuguese_
_103. i_
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair,
And a voice said in mastery while I strove, ...
‘Guess now who holds thee.’—‘Death,’ I said. But, there,
The silver answer rang, ... ‘Not Death, but Love.’
_104. iii_
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
Our ministering two angels look surprise
On one another, as they strike athwart
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art
A guest for queens to social pageantries,
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine, to ply thy part
Of chief musician. What hast _thou_ to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
A poor, tired, wandering singer, ... singing through
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?
The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,—
And Death must dig the level where these agree.
_105. vi_
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forebore, ...
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
_106. xxii_