VILLAGE MINSTREL
AND OTHER POEMS [Cont.]
[PAGE 3]
THE
VILLAGE MINSTREL
AND OTHER POEMS [Cont.]
[PAGE 3]
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 prospect 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 rant 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.
ADDRESS TO MY FATHER,
ON HIS RECEIVING AN EASY CHAIR FROM THE RIGHT HON.
LADY -------.
CALM resignation meets a happy end;
And Providence, long-trusted, brings a friend.
God's will be done, be patient and be good;
Elisha was, and ravens brought him food:
And so wast thou, my father, -fate's decree
Doom'd many evils should encompass thee;
And, like Elisha, though it met thee late,
Patience unwearied did not vainly wait.
Thou hast, my father, long been us'd to pine,
And patient borne thy pain; great pain was thine.
Thou hast submitted, ah, and thou hast known
The roughest storms that life has ever blown,
Yet met them like a lamb: thou wert resign'd,
And though thou pray'dst a better place to find,
'Twas nought presumptuous -meekly wouldst thou crave,
When pains rack'd sore, some easement in the grave;
To lay thy aching body down in peace,
Where want and pain, poor man's tormentors, cease.
'Twas all thy wish -and not till lately wish'd,
When age came on, and pain thy strength had crush'd.
There stood thy children, "ah," thou oft wouldst sigh,
"Let's see my babes brought up, and let me die.
"Though what I do brings them but little food,
"It better keeps them than a workhouse would.
"I've small enticement in this world to find,
"But could not rest if they were left behind." -
Bless thee, my father! thou'st been kind to me,
And God, who saw it, will be kind to thee.
Now pain has mark'd thee long with age's scars,
And age with double-blow thy end prepares, -
A crooked wreck, the trace of what has been,
Toil, want, and pain, now but too plainly seen, -
Thou'st met with friends who joy to damp despair,
And when most needed brought thy easy chair;
An easy seat thy wasted form to bless,
And make thy useless limbs to pain thee less:
O mayst thou long enjoy the comfort given,
Live long to bless them who the deed have done;
Then change thy earthly pains for joys in heaven! -
So beats the bosom of thy only son,
Whose bliss is at its height, whose long hope's crown'd,
To prove, when wanted most, thy friends are found.
HOLYWELL.
NATURE, thou accept the song,
To thee the simple lines belong,
Inspir'd as brushing hill and dell
I stroll'd the way to Holywell.
Though 'neath young April's watery sky,
The sun gleam'd warm, and roads were dry;
And though the valleys, bush, and tree
Still naked stood, yet on the lea
A flush of green, and fresh'ning glow
In melting patches 'gan to show
That swelling buds would soon again
In summer's livery bless the plain.
The thrushes too 'gan clear their throats,
And got by heart some two 'r three notes
Of their intended summer-song,
To cheer me as I stroll'd along.
The wild heath triumph'd in its scenes
Of goss and ling's perpetual greens;
And just to say that spring was come,
The violet left its woodland home,
And, hermit-like, from storms and wind
Sought the best shelter it could find,
'Neath long grass banks, with feeble powers
Peeping faintly purple flowers:
While oft unhous'd from beds of ling
The fluskering pheasant took to wing;
And bobbing rabbits, wild and shy,
Their white tails glancing on the eye,
Just prick'd their long ears list'ning round,
And sought their coverts under-ground.
The heath was left, and then at will
A road swept gently round the hill,
From whose high crown, as soodling by,
A distant prospect cheer'd my eye,
Of closes green and fallows brown;
And distant glimpse of cot and town;
And steeple beck'ning on the sight,
By morning sun-beams painted white;
And darksome woods with shadings sweet,
To make the landscape round complete;
And distant waters glist'ning by,
As if the ground were patch'd with sky:
While on the blue horizon's line
The far-off things did dimly shine,
Which wild conjecture only sees,
And fancy moulds to clouds and trees,
Thinking, if thither she could fly,
She'd find the close of earth and sky;
But as we turn to look again
On nearer objects, wood and plain
(So truths than fiction lovelier seem,)
One warms as wak'ning from a dream.
From covert hedge, on either side,
The blackbirds flutter'd terrified,
Mistaking me for pilfering boy
That doth too oft their nests destroy;
And "prink, prink, prink," they took to wing,
In snugger shades to build and sing.
From tufted grass or bush, the hare
Oft sprung from her endanger'd lair;
Surprise was startled on her rout,
So near one's feet she bolted out.
The sun each tree-top mounted o'er,
And got church-steeple height or more:
And as I soodled on and on,
The ground was warm to look upon,
it e'en invited one to rest,
And have a nap upon its breast;
But thought upon my journey's end,
Where doubtful fancies did depend,
Urg'd on my lazy feet to roam,
Like truant school-boy kept from home.
I ope'd each gate with idle swing,
And stood to listen ploughmen sing;
While cracking whip and jingling gears
Recall'd the toils of boyish years,
When, like to them, I took my rounds
O'er elting moulds of fallow grounds, -
With feet nigh shoeless, paddling through
The bitterest blasts that ever blew;
And napless beaver, weather'd brown,
That want oft wore without its crown:
A poor, unfriended, ragged boy,
Prest ere a child with man's employ.
'Tis past -'tis gone! -in musings lost
So thought I, leaning o'er the post;
And even jump'd with joy to see
Kind fate so highly favour me, -
To clear the storms of boyish hours,
And manhood's opening strew with flowers;
To bid such hopes man's summer blow,
As boy's weak spring dare never sow;
And every day desires, at will,
To make each hope bloom brighter still.
With joys as sweet as heart could melt,
With feelings dear as e'er were felt,
I met at last, as like a spell,
The 'witching views of Holywell;
Where hills tower'd high their crowns with pride,
And vales dropp'd headlong by their side,
Bestriped with shades of green and gray,
The fir-tree and the naked spray;
While, underneath their mingling grains,
The river silver'd down the plains,
And bolted on the stranger's sight,
As stars blink out from clouds at night.
Beside the stream a cotter's shed
Low in the hollow heav'd its head:
Its tenants seem'd as snug to dwell
As lives a bee within its cell;
Its chimney-top high ash embowers;
Beside its wall the river pours
Its guggling sounds in whirling sweep,
That e'en might lull a child to sleep.
Before the door, with paths untraced,
The green-sward many a beauty graced;
And daisy there, and cowslip too,
And buttercups of golden hue,
The children meet as soon as sought,
And gain their wish as soon as thought:
Who oft I ween, the children's way,
Will leap the threshold's bounds to play,
And spite of parent's chiding calls
Will straggle where the water falls,
And 'neath the hanging bushes creep
For violet-bud and primrose-peep,
And sigh with anxious, eager dream,
For water-blobs amid the stream;
And up the hill-side turn anon,
To pick the daisies one by one:
Then anxious to their cottage bound,
To show the prize their searches found,
Whose medley flowers, red, white, and blue,
As well can please their parents too;
And as their care and skill contrive,
In flower-pots many a day survive.
Ah, thus conjecturing, musing still,
I cast a look from off the hill,
And loll'd me 'gainst a propping tree,
And thought for them as 'twas with me:
I did the same in April time,
And spoilt the daisy's earliest prime;
Robb'd every primrose root I met,
And oft-times got the root to set;
And joyful home each nosegay bore;
And felt -as I shall feel no more.
DESCRIPTION OF A THUNDER-STORM.
Slow boiling up, on the horizon's brim,
Huge clouds arise, mountainous, dark and grim,
Sluggish and slow upon the air they ride,
As pitch-black ships o'er the blue ocean glide;
Curling and hovering o'er the gloomy south,
As curls the sulphur from the cannon's mouth.
More grizly in the sun the tempest comes,
And through the wood with threatened vengeance hums,
Hissing more loud and loud among the trees: -
The frighted wild-wind trembles to a breeze,
Just turns the leaf in terrifying sighs,
Bows to the spirit of the storm, and dies.
In wild pulsations beats the heart of fear,
At the low rumbling thunder creeping near.
The poplar leaf now resteth on its tree;
And the mill-sail, once twirling rapidly,
Lagging and lagging till each breeze had dropt,
Abruptly now in hesitation stopt.
The very cattle gaze upon the gloom,
And seemly dread the threat'ned fate to come.
The little birds sit mute within the bush,
And nature's very breath is stopt and hush.
The shepherd leaves his unprotected flock,
And flies for shelter in some scooping rock;
There hides in fear from the dread boding wrath,
Lest rocks should tremble when it sallies forth,
And that almighty Power, that bids it roar,
Hath seal'd the doom when time shall be no more.
The cotter's family cringe round the hearth,
Where all is sadden'd but the cricket's mirth:
The boys through fear in soot-black corner push,
And 'tween their father's knees for safety crush;
Each leaves his plaything on the brick-barr'd floor,
The idle top and ball can please no more,
And oft above the wheel's unceasing thrum
The murmur's heard to whisper, -"Is it come!"
The clouds more dismal darken on the eye,
More huge, more fearful, and of deeper dye;
And, as unable to light up the gloom,
The sun drops sinking in its bulging tomb.
Now as one glances sky-ward with affright,
Short vivid lightnings catch upon the sight;
While like to rumbling armies, as it were,
Th' approaching thunder mutters on the ear,
And still keeps creeping on more loud and loud,
And stronger lightnings splinter through the cloud.
An awe-struck monument of hope and fear,
Mute expectation waits the terror near,
That dreadful clap, that terminates suspense,
When ruin meets us or is banish'd hence.
The signal's given in that explosive flash, -
One moment's pause -and then the horrid crash: -
-Almighty, what a shock! -the jostled wrack
Of nature seems in mingled ruins done;
Astounded echo rives the terrors back,
And tingles on the ear a dying swoon.
Flash, peal, and flash still rend the melting cloud;
All nature seems to sigh her race is o'er,
And as she shrinks 'neath chaos' dismal shroud,
Gives meek consent that suns shall shine no more.
Where is the sinner now, with careless eye,
Will look, and say that all is chance's whim;
When hell e'en trembles at God's majesty,
And sullen owns that nought can equal him?
But clouds now melt like mercy into tears,
And nature's Lord his wrath in kindness stops:
Each trembling cotter now delighted hears
The rain fall down in heavy-pattering drops.
The sun 'gins tremble through the cloud again,
And a slow murmur wakes the delug'd plain;
A murmur of thanksgiving, mix'd with fear,
For God's great power and our deliverance here.
TO AN EARLY COWSLIP.
COWSLIP bud, so early peeping,
Warm'd by April's hazard hours;
O'er thy head though sunshine's creeping,
Close the threatening tempest lowers:
Trembling blossom, let me bear thee
To a better, safer home;
Though a fairer blossom wear thee,
Never tempest there shall come:
Mary's bonny breast to charm thee,
Bosom soft as down can be,
Eyes like any suns to warm thee,
And scores of sweets unknown to me; -
Ah! for joys thou'lt there be meeting,
In a station so divine,
I could wish, what's vain repeating,
Cowslip bud, thy life were mine.
AFTER READING IN A LETTER
PROPOSALS FOR BUILDING A COTTAGE.
Beside a runnel build my shed,
With stubbles cover'd o'er;
Let broad oaks o'er its chimney spread,
And grass-plats grace the door.
The door may open with a string,
So that it closes tight;
And locks would be a wanted thing,
To keep out thieves at night.
A little garden, not too fine,
Inclose with painted pales;
And woodbines, round the cot to twine,
Pin to the wall with nails.
Let hazels grow, and spindling sedge,
Bent bowering over-head;
Dig old man's beard from woodland hedge,
To twine a summer shade.
Beside the threshold sods provide,
And build a summer seat;
Plant sweet-briar bushes by its side,
And flowers that blossom sweet.
I love the sparrow's ways to watch
Upon the cotter's sheds,
So here and there pull out the thatch,
That they may hide their heads.
And as the sweeping swallows stop
Their flights along the green,
Leave holes within the chimney-top
To paste their nest between.
Stick shelves and cupboards round the hut,
In all the holes and nooks;
Nor in the corner fail to put
A cupboard for the books.
Along the floor some sand I'll sift,
To make it fit to live in;
And then I'll thank ye for the gift,
As something worth the giving.
AUTUMN.
THE summer-flower has run to seed,
And yellow is the woodland bough;
And every leaf of bush and weed
Is tipt with autumn's pencil now.
And I do love the varied hue,
And I do love the browning plain;
And I do love each scene to view,
That's mark'd with beauties of her reign.
The woodbine-trees red berries bear,
That clustering hang upon the bower;
While, fondly lingering here and there,
Peeps out a dwindling sickly flower.
The trees' gay leaves are turned brown,
By every little wind undress'd;
And as they flap and whistle down,
We see the birds' deserted nest.
No thrush or blackbird meets the eye,
Or fills the ear with summer's strain;
They but dart out for worm and fly,
Then silent seek their rest again.
Beside the brook, in misty blue,
Bilberries glow on tendrils weak,
Where many a bare-foot splashes through,
The pulpy, juicy prize to seek:
For 'tis the rustic boy's delight,
Now autumn's sun so warmly gleams,
And these ripe berries tempt his sight,
To dabble in the shallow streams.
And oft his rambles we may trace,
Delv'd in the mud his printing feet,
And oft we meet a chubby face
All stained with the berries sweet.
The cowboy oft slives down the brook,
And tracks for hours each winding round,
While pinders, that such chances look,
Drive his rambling cows to pound.
The woodland bowers, that us'd to be
Lost in their silence and their shade,
Are now a scene of rural glee,
With many a nutting swain and maid.
The scrambling shepherd with his hook,
'Mong hazel boughs of rusty brown
That overhang some gulphing brook,
Drags the ripen'd clusters down.
While, on a bank of faded grass,
Some artless maid the prize receives;
And kisses to the sun-tann'd lass,
As well as nuts, the shepherd gives.
I love the year's decline, and love
Through rustling yellow shades to range,
O'er stubble land, 'neath willow grove,
To pause upon each varied change:
And oft have thought 'twas sweet, to list
The stubbles crackling with the heat,
Just as the sun broke through the mist
And warm'd the herdsman's rushy seat;
And grunting noise of rambling hogs,
Where pattering acorns oddly drop;
And noisy bark of shepherds' dogs,
The restless routs of sheep to stop;
While distant thresher's swingle drops
With sharp and hollow-twanking raps;
And, nigh at hand, the echoing chops
Of hardy hedger stopping gaps;
And sportsmen's trembling whistle-calls
That stay the swift retreating pack;
And cowboy's whoops, and squawking brawls,
To urge the straggling heifer back.
Autumn-time, thy scenes and shades
Are pleasing to the tasteful eye;
Though winter, when the thought pervades,
Creates an ague-shivering sigh.
Grey-bearded rime hangs on the morn,
And what's to come too true declares;
The ice-drop hardens on the thorn,
And winter's starving bed prepares.
No music's heard the fields among;
Save where the hedge-chats chittering play,
And ploughman drawls his lonely song,
As cutting short the dreary day.
Now shatter'd shades let me attend,
Reflecting look on their decline,
Where pattering leaves confess their end,
In sighing flutterings hinting mine.
For every leaf, that twirls the breeze,
May useful hints and lessons give;
The falling leaves and fading trees
Will teach and caution us to live.
"Wandering clown," they seem to say,
"In us your coming end review:
Like you we lived, but now decay;
The same sad fate approaches you."
Beneath a yellow fading tree,
As red suns light thee, Autumn-morn,
In wildest rapture let me see
The sweets that most thy charms adorn.
O while my eye the landscape views,
What countless beauties are display'd;
What varied tints of nameless hues, -
Shades endless melting into shade.
A russet red the hazels gain,
As suited to their drear decline;
While maples brightest dress retain,
And in the gayest yellows shine.
The poplar tree hath lost its pride;
Its leaves in wan consumption pine;
They hoary turn on either side,
And life to every gale resign.
The stubborn oak, with haughty pride
Still in its lingering green, we view;
But vain the strength he shows is tried,
He tinges slow with sickly hue.
The proudest triumph art conceives,
Or beauties nature's power can crown,
Grey-bearded time in shatters leaves;
Destruction's trample treads them down.
Tis lovely now to turn one's eye,
The changing face of heaven to mind;
How thin-spun clouds glide swiftly by,
While lurking storms slow move behind.
Now suns are clear, now clouds pervade,
Each moment chang'd, and chang'd again;
And first a light, and then a shade,
Swift glooms and brightens o'er the plain.
Poor pussy through the stubble flies,
In vain, o'erpowering foes to shun;
The lurking spaniel points the prize,
And pussy's harmless race is run.
The crowing pheasant, in the brakes,
Betrays his lair with awkward squalls;
A certain aim the gunner takes,
He clumsy fluskers up, and falls.
But hide thee, muse, the woods among,
Nor stain thy artless, rural rhymes;
Go leave the murderer's wiles unsung,
Nor mark the harden'd gunner's crimes.
The fields all clear'd, the labouring mice
To sheltering hedge and wood patrole,
Where hips and haws for food suffice,
That chumbled lie about their hole.
The squirrel, bobbing from the eye,
Is busy now about his hoard,
And in old nest of crow or pye
His winter-store is oft explor'd.
The leaves forsake the willow grey,
And down the brook they whirl and wind;
So hopes and pleasures whirl away,
And leave old age and pain behind.
The thorns and briars, vermilion-hue,
Now full of hips and haws are seen;
If village-prophecies be true,
They prove that winter will be keen.
Hark! started are some lonely strains:
The robin-bird is urg'd to sing;
Of chilly evening he complains,
And dithering droops his ruffled wing.
Slow o'er the wood the puddock sails;
And mournful, as the storms arise,
His feeble note of sorrow wails
To the unpitying frowning skies.
More coldly blows the autumn-breeze;
Old winter grins a blast between;
The north-winds rise and strip the trees,
And desolation shuts the scene.