VILLAGE MINSTREL
AND OTHER POEMS [Cont.]
[PART 10]
THE
VILLAGE MINSTREL
AND OTHER POEMS [Cont.]
[PART 10]
THE LAST OF MARCH.
WRITTEN AT LOLHAM BRIGS.
THOUGH o'er the darksome northern hill
Old ambush'd winter frowning flies,
And faintly drifts his threatenings still
In snowy sweet and blackening skies;
Yet here the willow leaning lies
And shields beneath the budding flower,
Where banks to break the wind arise,
'Tis sweet to sit and spend an hour.
Though floods of winter bustling fall
Adown the arches bleak and blea,
Though snow-storms clothe the mossy wall,
And hourly whiten o'er the lea;
Yet when from clouds the sun is free
And warms the learning bird to sing,
'Neath sloping bank and sheltering tree
'Tis sweet to watch the creeping spring.
Though still so early, one may spy
And track her footsteps every hour;
The daisy with its golden eye,
And primrose bursting into flower;
And snugly, where the thorny bower
Keeps off the nipping frost and wind,
Excluding all but sun and shower,
There children early violets find.
Here 'neath the shelving bank's retreat
The horse-blob swells its golden ball;
Nor fear the lady-smocks to meet
The snows that round their blossoms fall:
Here by the arch's ancient wall
The antique elder buds anew;
Again the bulrush sprouting tall
The water wrinkles, rippling through.
As spring's warm herald April comes,
As nature's sleep is nearly past,
How sweet to hear the wakening hums
Of aught beside the winter blast!
Of feather'd minstrels first and last,
The robin's song's again begun;
And, as skies clear when overcast,
Larks rise to hail the peeping sun.
The startling peewits, as they pass,
Scream joyous whirring over-head,
Right glad the fields and meadow grass
Will quickly hide their careless shed:
The rooks, where yonder witchens spread,
Quawk clamorous to the spring's approach;
Here silent, from its watery bed,
To hail its coming, leaps the roach.
While stalking o'er the fields again
In stripp'd defiance to the storms,
The hardy seedsman spreads the grain,
And all his hopeful toil performs:
In flocks the timid pigeon swarms,
For scatter'd kernels chance may spare;
And as the plough unbeds the worms,
The crows and magpies gather there.
Yon bullocks low their liberty,
The young grass cropping to their fill;
And colts, from straw-yards neighing free,
Spring's opening promise 'joy at will:
Along the bank, beside the rill
The happy lambkins bleat and run,
Then weary, 'neath a sheltering hill
Drop basking in the gleaming sun.
At distance from the water's edge,
On hanging sallow's farthest stretch,
The moor-hen 'gins her nest of sedge
Safe from destroying school-boy's reach.
Fen-sparrows chirp and fly to fetch
The wither'd reed-down rustling nigh,
And, by the sunny side the ditch,
Prepare their dwelling warm and dry.
Again a storm encroaches round,
Thick clouds are darkening deep behind;
And, through the arches, hoarsely sound
The risings of the hollow wind:
Spring's early hopes seem half resign'd,
And silent for a while remain;
Till sunbeams broken clouds can find,
And brighten all to life again.
Ere yet a hailstone pattering comes,
Or dimps the pool the rainy squall,
One hears, in mighty murmuring hums,
The spirit of the tempest call:
Here sheltering 'neath the ancient wall
I still pursue my musing dreams,
And as the hailstones round me fall
I mark their bubbles in the streams.
Reflection here is warm'd to sigh,
Tradition gives these brigs renown,
Though heedless Time long pass'd them by
Nor thought them worthy noting down:
Here in the mouth of every clown
The "Roman road" familiar sounds;
All else, with everlasting frown,
Oblivion's mantling mist surrounds.
These walls the work of Roman hands!
How may conjecturing Fancy pore,
As lonely here one calmly stands,
On paths that age has trampled o'er.
The builders' names are known no more;
No spot on earth their memory bears;
And crowds, reflecting thus before,
Have since found graves as dark as theirs.
The storm has ceas'd, - again the sun
The ague-shivering season dries;
Short-winded March, thou'lt soon be done,
Thy fainting tempest mildly dies.
Soon April's flowers and dappled skies
Shall spread a couch for lovely May,
Upon whose bosom Nature lies
And smiles her joyous youth away.
TO THE HONOURABLE
ADMIRAL LORD RADSTOCK.
'TIS sweet to recollect life's past controls,
And turn to days of sorrow when they're bye,
And think of gentle friends and feeling souls
That offered shelter when the storm was high, -
It thrills one's heart: - As mariners have turn'd,
When 'scap'd from shipwreck 'mid the billows' roar,
To look on fragments that the tempest spurn'd,
On which they clung, and struggled to the shore,
So sweet it is to turn. - And, hour by hour,
Reflection muses on the good and great,
That lent a portion of their wealthy power,
And sav'd a wormling from destruction's fate.
Oft to the patron of her first essays
The rural muse, O Radstock, turns her eye,
Not with the fulsome noise of fawning praise,
But soul's deep gushings in a silent sigh;
As drooping blossoms, dwindling deep in shade,
Should e'er a sunbeam to their lot be given,
Perk up in hopeful bloom their feeble head,
And seemly offer silent thanks to heaven.
THE WILD-FLOWER NOSEGAY.
IN life's first years as on a mother's breast,
When Nature nurs'd me in her flowery pride,
I cull'd her bounty, such as seemed best,
And made my garlands by some hedge-row side:
With pleasing eagerness the mind reclaims
From black oblivion's shroud such artless scenes,
And cons the calendar of childish names
With simple joy, when manhood intervenes.
From the sweet time that spring's young thrills are born,
And golden catkins deck the sallow tree,
Till summer's blue-caps blossom mid the corn,
And autumn's ragwort yellows o'er the lea,
I roam'd the fields about, a happy child,
And bound my posies up with rushy ties,
And laugh'd and mutter'd o'er my visions wild,
Bred in the brain of pleasure's ecstacies.
Crimp-frilled daisy, bright bronze buttercup,
Freckt cowslip-peeps, gilt whins of morning's dew,
And hooded arum early sprouting up
Ere the white-thorn bud half unfolds to view,
And wan-hued lady-smocks, that love to spring
'Side the swamp margin of some plashy pond;
And all the blooms that early Aprils bring,
With eager joy each fill'd my playful hand:
The jaundice-tinctur'd primrose, sickly sere,
Mid its broad curled leaves of mellow green,
Hemm'd in with relics of the 'parted year,
The mournful wrecks of summers that have been -
Dead leaves of ash, and oak, and hazel tree,
The constant covering of all woody land;
With tiny violets, creeping plenteously,
That one by one entic'd my patient hand.
As shadowy April's suns and showers did pass,
And summer's wild profusions plenteous grew,
Hiding the spring-flowers in long weeds and grass,
What meads and copses would I wander thro'!
When on the water op'd the lily buds,
And fine long purples shadow'd in the lake,
When purple bugles peeped in the woods
'Neath darkest shades that boughs and leaves could make.
Then did I wear day's many hours away
In gathering blooms of seemly sweetest kinds,
Scrambling for blossoms of the white-thorn may,
Ere they fell victims to unfeeling winds;
And twisted woodbines, and the flusht briar rose,
How sweet remembrance on the mind doth rise
As they bow'd arching where the runnel flows,
To think how oft I waded for the prize.
The ragged-robins by the spinney lake,
And flag-flower bunches deeper down the flood,
And, snugly hiding 'neath the feather'd brake,
Full many a blue-bell flower and cuckoo-bud,
And old-man's beard, that wreath'd along the hedge
Its oddly rude misshapen tawny flowers,
And prickly burs that crowd the leaves of sedge,
Have claim'd my pleasing search for hours and hours.
And down the hay-fields, wading 'bove the knees
Through seas of waving grass, what days I've gone,
Cheating the hopes of many labouring bees
By cropping blossoms they were perch'd upon;
As thyme along the hills, and lambtoe knots,
And the wild stalking Canterbury bell,
By hedge-row side or bushy bordering spots,
That loves in shade and solitude to dwell.
And when the summer's swarms, half-nameless, fled,
And autumn's landscape faded bleak and wild,
When leaves 'gan fall and show their berries red,
Still with the season would I be beguil'd
Lone spots to seek, home leaving far behind, -
Where wildness rears her lings and teazle-burs,
And where, last lingering of the flowery kind,
Blue heath-bells tremble 'neath the shelt'ring furze.
Sweet were such walks on the half-barren wild,
Which ploughs leave quiet with their briars and brakes,
Prospects of freedom pleasing from a child,
To track the crook'd path which the rabbit makes!
On these past times one loves to look behind;
Nor lives a soul, mere trifles as they be,
But feels a joy in bringing to his mind
The wild-flower rambles of his infancy.
Tis sweet to view, as in a favour'd book,
Life's rude beginning page long turned o'er;
'Tis nature's common feeling, back to look
On things that pleas'd us, when they are no more:
Pausing on childish scenes a wish repeat,
Seeming more sweet to value when we're men,
As one, awaken'd from a vision sweet,
Wishes to sleep and dream it o'er again.
SONG.
There was a time, when love's young flowers
With many a joy my bosom prest:
Sweet hours of bliss! - but short are hours,
Those hours are fled - and I'm distrest.
I would not wish, in reason's spite;
I would not wish new joy to gain;
I only wish for one delight, -
To see those hours of bliss again.
There was a day, when love was young,
And nought but bliss did there belong;
When blackbirds nestling o'er us sung,
Ah me! what sweetness wak'd his song.
I wish not springs for ever fled;
I wish not birds' forgotten strain;
I only wish for feelings dead
To warm, and wake, and feel again.
But ah! what once was joy is past:
The time's gone by; the day and hour
Are whirring fled on trouble's blast,
As winter nips the summer flower.
A shadow is but left the mind,
Of joys that once were real to view;
An echo only fills the wind,
With mocking sounds that once were true.
SONG.
THERE's the daisy, the woodbine,
And crow-flower so golden;
There's the wild rose, the eglantine,
And May-buds unfolding;
There are flowers for my fairy,
And bowers for my love:
Wilt thou gang with me, Mary,
To the banks of Brooms-grove?
There's the thorn-bush and the ash-tree
To shield thee from the heat,
While the brook to refresh thee
Runs close by thy feet;
The thrushes are chanting clear,
In the pleasures of love;
Thou'rt the only thing wanting here
'Mid the sweets of Brooms-grove.
Then come ere a minute's gone,
Since the long summer's day
Puts her wings swift as linnets' on
For hieing away.
Then come with no doubtings near,
To fear a false love;
For there's nothing without thee dear,
Can please in Brooms-grove.
The woodbine may nauntle here,
In blossoms so fine,
The wild roses mantling near
In blushes may shine;
Mary queen of each blossom proves,
She's the blossom I love,
She's the all that my bosom loves
'Mong the sweets of Brooms-grove.
SONG.
MARY, the day of love's pleasures has been,
And the day is o'erclouded and gone;
These eyes all their fulness of pleasure have seen,
What they never again shall look on.
The sun has oft risen and shrunk from the heaven,
And flowers with the night have been wet;
And many a smile on another's been given,
Since the first smile of Mary I met.
And eyes have been won with thy charms when thou smil'd,
As ripe blossoms tempting the bee;
And kisses the sweets of thy lips have defiled,
Since last they breath'd heaven on me.
Their honey's first tasting was lovely and pleasant,
But others have rifled the cell:
Love sickens to think of the past and the present,
Bidding all that was Mary - farewel!
The blushes of rose-blossoms shortly endure,
Though sweet is their unbudding gem;
But love in long absence may often keep pure,
If jealousy blight not the stem.
We look o'er the doubts of our minds, and we sicken,
And hope what we think is a dream;
We turn to the past and love's jealousies quicken- -
We cannot first pleasures redeem.
The sun will rise bright, though in night it be set;
And the dew-drop from blossoms will sever;
But the doubtfulness, Mary, that rose since we met,
Is pain to this bosom for ever.
The beauty of things raises constant desire;
The gem rarely 'scapeth the view;
In the fears of a second first love doth expire,
And biddeth false Mary adieu!
SONG.
FILL the foaming cups again,
Let's be merry while we may;
Man is foolish to complain
When such joys are in his way:
Cares may breed in peevish minds,
Life at best is short and vain,
Wisdom takes the joy she finds -
Fill the foaming cups again.
Fortune, she may slight us, boys,
Boast her thousands to our crowns,
Give to knaves her smiles and joys,
We can feast upon her frowns.
What care we how rich she be,
Let our needs but meet supply,
Kings may govern, so will we -
Foaming cups before we're dry.
Fill them foaming o'er again,
Fill with cordial to the brim;
Let the peevish soul complain,
Care is worthy none but him.
Hearts of oak we're born to die;
Toast for comforts while we reign, -
"Let our needs but meet supply -
Foaming cups be fill'd again."
TO THE RURAL MUSE.
SIMPLE enchantress! wreath'd in summer blooms
Of slender bent-stalks topt with feathery down,
Heath's creeping vetch, and glaring yellow brooms,
With ash-keys wavering on thy rushy crown;
Simple enchantress! how I've woo'd thy smiles,
How often sought thee far from flush'd renown;
Sought thee unseen where fountain-waters fell;
Touch'd thy wild reed unheard, in weary toils;
And though my heavy hand thy song defiles,
'Tis hard to leave thee, and to bid farewel.
Simple enchantress! ah, from all renown,
Far off, my soul hath warm'd in bliss to see
The varied figures on thy summer-gown,
That nature's finger works so 'witchingly;
The colour'd flower, the silken leaves that crown
Green nestling bower-bush and high towering tree;
Brooks of the sunny green and shady dell:
Ah, sweet full many a time they've been to me;
And though my weak song faulters, sung to thee,
I cannot, wild enchantress, bid farewel.
Still must I seek thee, though I wind the brook
When morning sunbeams o'er the waters glide,
And trace thy footsteps in the lonely nook
As evening moists the daisy by thy side;
Ah, though I woo thee on thy bed of thyme, -
If courting thee be deem'd ambition's pride,
It is so passing sweet with thee to dwell -
If love for thee in clowns be call'd a crime,
Forgive presumption, O thou queen of rhyme!
I've lov'd thee long, I cannot bid farewel.
SONNETS.
I. HOME.
O HOME, however homely, - thoughts of thee
Can never fail to cheer the absent breast;
How oft wild raptures have been felt by me,
When back returning, weary and distrest:
How oft I've stood to see the chimney pour
Thick clouds of smoke in columns lightly blue,
And, close beneath, the house-leek's yellow flower,
While fast approaching to a nearer view.
These, though they're trifles, ever gave delight;
E'en now they prompt me with a fond desire,
Painting the evening group before my sight,
Of friends and kindred seated round the fire.
O Time! how rapid did thy moments flow,
That chang'd these scenes of joy to scenes of woe.
II. THE TOMB.
ONCE musing o'er an old effaced stone,
Longing to know whose dust it did conceal,
I anxious ponder'd o'er what might reveal,
And sought the seeming date with weeds o'ergrown;
But that prov'd fruitless - both the date and name
Had been for ages in oblivion thrown.
The dim remains of sculptur'd ornament
Gave proof sufficient 'twas reward for fame:
This did my searching view so much torment,
That Time I question'd to expose the same;
But soon a check--"And what is it to thee
Whose dust lies here? - since thou wilt quickly be
Forgot like him: - then Time shall bid thee go
To heaven's pure bliss, or hell's tormenting woe."
III. SORROWS FOR A FRIEND.
YE brown old oaks that spread the silent wood,
How soothing sweet your stillness used to be;
And still could bless, when wrapt in musing mood,
But now confusion suits the best to me.
"Is it for love," the breezes seem to say,
"That you forsake our woodland silence here?
Is it for love, you roam so far away
From these still shades you valu'd once so dear?"
"No, breezes, no!" - I answer with a sigh,
"Love never could so much my bosom grieve;
Turnhill, my friend! - alas! so soon to die -
That is the grief which presses me to leave:
Though noise can't heal, it may some balm bestow;
But silence rankles in the wounds of woe."
IV. TO MY COTTAGE.
Thou lowly cot, where first my breath I drew,
Past joys endear thee, childhood's past delight;
Where each young summer's pictur'd on my view;
And, dearer still, the happy winter-night,
When the storm pelted down with all his might,
And roar'd and bellow'd in the chimney-top,
And patter'd vehement 'gainst the window-light,
And on the threshold fell the quick eaves-drop.
How blest I've listen'd on my corner stool,
Heard the storm rage, and hugg'd my happy spot,
While the fond parent wound her whirring spool,
And spar'd a sigh for the poor wanderer's lot.
In thee, sweet hut, this happiness was prov'd,
And thee endear and make thee doubly lov'd.
V. POVERTY.
RANK Poverty! dost thou my joys assail,
And with thy threat'nings fright me from my rest?
I once had thoughts, that with a Bloomfield's tale,
And leisure hours, I surely should be blest;
But now I find the sadly-alter'd scene,
From these few days I fondly thought my own,
Hoping to spend them private and alone,
But, lo! thy troop of spectres intervene:
Want shows his face, with Idleness between,
Next Shame's approaching step, that hates the throng,
Comes sneaking on, with Sloth that fetters strong.
Are these the joys my leisure hours must glean?
Then I decline: - but know where'er we meet,
Ye ne'er shall drive me from the Muses' seat.
VI. TO MY MOTHER.
WITH filial duty I address thee, Mother,
Thou dearest tie which this world's wealth possesses;
Endearing name! no language owns another
That half the tenderness and love expresses;
The very word itself breathes the affection,
Which heaves the bosom of a luckless child
To thank thee, for that care and that protection,
Which once, where fortune frowns, so sweetly smil'd.
Ah, oft fond memory leaves its pillow'd anguish,
To think when in thy arms my sleep was sound;
And now my startled tear oft views thee languish,
And fain would drop its honey in the wound:
But I am doom'd the sad reverse to see,
Where the worst pain I feel, is loss of helping thee.
VII. THE SNOWDROP.
SWEET type of innocence, snow-clothed blossom,
Seemly, though vainly, bowing down to shun
The storm hard-beating on thy wan white bosom,
Left in the swail, and little cheer'd by sun;
Resembling that frail jewel, just begun
To ope on vice's eye its witcheries blooming,
Midst all its storms, with little room to shun -
Ah, thou art winter's snowdrop, lovely Woman!
In this world dropt, where every evil's glooming
With killing tempests o'er its tender prey,
Watching the opening of thy beauties coming,
Its every infant charm to snatch away:
Then come the sorrows thou'rt too weak to brave,
And then thy beauty-cheek digs ruin's early grave.
VIII. LIFE.
LIFE, thou art misery, or as such to me;
One name serves both, or I no difference see;
Tho' some there live would call thee heaven below,
But that's a nickname I've not learn'd to know:
A wretch with poverty and pains replete,
Where even useless stones beneath his feet
Cannot be gather'd up to say "they're mine,"
Sees little heaven in a life like thine.
Hope lends a sorry shelter from thy storms,
And largely promises, but small performs.
O irksome life! were but this hour my last!
This weary breath fain sighs for its decay;
O that my soul death's dreary vale had past,
And met the sunshine of a better day!
IX. WRITTEN IN AUTUMN.
CHECQ'D Autumn, doubly sweet is thy declining,
To meditate within this 'wilder'd shade;
To view the wood in its pied lustre shining,
And catch thy varied beauties as they fade;
Where o'er broad hazel-leaves thy pencil mellows,
Red as the glow that morning's opening warms,
And ash or maple 'neath thy colour yellows,
Robbing some sunbeam of its setting charms:
I would say much of what now meets my eye,
But beauties lose me in variety.
O for the warmth of soul and 'witching measure,
Expressing semblance, Poesy, which is thine,
And Genius' eye to view this transient treasure,
That Autumn here might lastingly decline.
X. ON DEATH.
O LIFE, thy name to me's a galling sound,
A sound I fain would wish to breathe no more;
One only peace for me my hopes have found,
When thy existence and wild race is o'er;
When Death, with one, heals every other wound,
And lays my aching head in the cold ground.
O happy hour! I only wish to have
Another moment's gasp, and then the grave.
I only wish for one departing sigh,
A welcome farewel take of all, and die.
Thou'st given me little, world, for thanks' return,
Thou tempst me little with thee still to 'bide:
One only cause in leaving thee I mourn, -
That I had e'er been born, nor in the cradle died.