THE

VILLAGE MINSTREL

AND OTHER POEMS [Cont.]

[PART 5]

TO A BOWER.

THREE times, sweet hawthorn! I have met thy bower,
And thou hast gain'd my love, and I do feel
An aching pain to leave thee: every flower
Around thee opening doth new charms reveal,
And binds my fondness stronger. -Wild wood bower,
In memory's calendar thou'rt treasur'd up:
And should we meet in some remoter hour,
When all thy bloom to winter-winds shall droop;
Ah, in life's winter, many a day to come,
Should my grey wrinkles pass thy spot of ground,
And find it bare -with thee no longer crown'd;
Within the woodman's faggot torn from hence,
Or chopt by hedgers up for yonder fence;
Ah, should I chance by thee as then to come,
I'll look upon thy nakedness with pain,
And, as I view thy desolated doom,
In fancy's eye I'll fetch thy shade again:
And of this lovely day I'll think and sigh,
And ponder o'er this sweetly-passing hour,
And feel as then the throes of joys gone by,
When I was young, and thou a blooming bower.


BALLAD.

WHEN nature's beauty shone complete.
With summer's lovely weather,
And even, shadowing day's retreat,
Brought swains and maids together;
Then I did meet a charming face,
But who -I'll be discreet:
Though lords themselves without disgrace
Might love whom I did meet.

"Good evening, lovely lass," said I,
To make her silence break;
The instant evening's blushing sky
Was rival'd in her cheek;
Her eyes were turn'd upon the ground,
She made me no reply,
But downward looks my bosom found:
"You've won me," whisper'd I.

And I did try all love could do,
And she try'd all to fly,
Now lingering slow to let me go,
Then hurrying to pass by:
"My love," said I, "you've me mistook,
No harm from me you'll meet;"
She only answer'd with a look,
But it was 'witching sweet.

I own'd my love, and prais'd her eyes,
Whose power she little knew;
And doubtless then she fancied lies,
What since she's proved true;
Confusion mingling fear and shame,
Between the "Yes" and "No,"
O when I mention'd love's soft name
How sweet her cheeks did glow!

I told her all the open truth,
'Bout being a labouring swain,
With not one groat to boast, forsooth,
But what hard work did gain:
And begg'd excuse in such-like clothes
Within her way to fall;
Wenches are ta'en with flashy beaus -
But she excus'd it all.

As near the humble cot we came,
Her fears did meet alarm
Lest friends imprudent ways should blame,
And think I meant her harm:
So there I prest her to my heart,
And there a kiss was ta'en,
And there I vow'd, ere we did part,
To meet her soon again.


TO POESY.

O SWEETLY wild and 'witching Poesy!
Thou light of this world's hermitage I prove thee;
And surely none helps loving thee that knows thee,
A soul of feeling cannot help but love thee.
I would say how thy secret wonders move me,
Thou spell of loveliness! -but 'tis too much:
Had I the language of the gods above me
I might then venture thy wild harp to touch,
And sing of all thy thrilling pains and pleasures;
The flowers I meet in this world's wilderness;
The comforts rising from thy spell-bound treasures,
Thy cordial balm that softens my distress:
I would say all, but thou art far above me;
Words are too weak, expression can't be had;
I can but say I love, and dearly love thee,
And that thou cheer'st me when my soul is sad.


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.


SONG.

DROPT here and there upon the flower
I love the dew to see,
For then returns the even's hour
That is so dear to me,
When silence reigns upon the plain,
And night hides all, or nearly;
For then I meet the smiles again
Of her I love so dearly.

O how I love yon dusky plains,
Though others there may be
As much belov'd by other swains,
But none so dear to me:
Their thorn-buds smell as sweet the while,
Their brooks may run as clearly;
But what are they without the smile
Of her I love so dearly.

In yonder bower the maid I've met,
Whom still I love to meet;
The dew-drops fall, the sun has set,
O evening thou art sweet!
Hope's eye fain breaks the misty glooms,
The time's expir'd, or nearly -
Ah, faithful still, and here she comes;
Who could but love thee dearly!

Though till we meet 'neath fate's control,
Who knows the luck that shall come,
And then, thou idol of my soul,
We'll meet, with happier welcome;
I wish I had, for sake of thee,
A lord's estate, or nearly;
They soon should see who'd ladies be,
And whom I love so dearly.


TO A DEAD TREE.

OLD tree thou art wither'd -I pass'd thee last year,
And the blackbird snug hid in thy branches did sing,
Thy shadow stretch'd dark o'er the grass sprouting near,
And thou wert as green as thy mates of the spring.
How alter'd since then! not a leaf hast thou got,
Thy honours brown round thee that clothed the tree;
The clown passeth by thee and heedeth thee not,
But thou'rt a warm source of reflection for me.

I think, while I view thee and rest on the stile,
Life's bloom is as frail as the leaves thou hast shed;
Like thee I may boast of my honours awhile,
But new springs may blossom, and mine may be fled:
Fond friends may bend o'er the rais'd turf where I'm laid,
And warm recollection the past may look o'er,
And say by my life, as I say by thy shade,
"Last spring he was living, but now he's no more."


THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

"AH, where can he linger?" said Doll, with a sigh,
As bearing her milk-burthen home:
" Since he's broken his vow, near an hour has gone by,
So fair as he promis'd to come."
-She'd fain had him notice the loudly-clapt gate,
And fain call'd him up to her song;
But while her stretch'd shade prov'd the omen too late,
Heavy-hearted she mutter'd along.

She look'd and she listen'd, and sigh follow'd sigh,
And jealous thoughts troubled her head;
The skirts of the pasture were losing the eye,
As eve her last finishing spread;
And hope, so endearing, was topmost to see,
As 'tween-light was cheating the view,
Every thing at a distance -a bush, or a tree,
Her love's pleasing picture it drew.

The pasture-gate creak'd, pit-a-pat her heart went,
Fond thrilling with hope's pleasing pain,
She certainly thought that a signal it meant,
So she turn'd, to be cheated again;
Expectations and wishes throbb'd warm to her side,
But soon the sweet feeling was lost,
Chill damps quick ensuing, when nigh she descried
Her idle cows rubbing the post.

By fancy soon tickled, by hopes led astray,
Again did she hope, but in vain; -
A twitch at her sleeve! -'twas the shepherd's fond way,
And she look'd o'er her shoulder again;
But a bramble had caught at her gown passing by;
Disappointment, how great is thy smart!
How deep was the sorrow explain'd in that sigh,
Like a bramble-thorn twang'd through her heart!

Quite wearied she soodled along through the dew,
And oft look'd and listen'd around,
And loudly she clapt every gate she came through,
To call her lost love to the sound;
And whenever to rest she her buckets set down,
She jingled her yokes to and fro,
And her yokes she might jingle till morn -a rude clown,
Ere he it seem'd offered to go.

Passing maids wonder'd much as she came to the town,
To see her so still on her way; -
She ne'er stopt to name a young man or new gown,
So much as she used to say:
Some ask'd if her tongue she had lost on the plain,
Some enquir'd if she ow'd any spite;
But short were the answers she made them again,
"Yes," or "no," and a mutter'd "good night."

She'd cause to be silent, and knew it too well,
And said to herself passing by,
"Disappointments like mine if to you they befel,
Ye would then be as sulky as I."
Now nigh home and Roger, her bosom glow'd hot,
And jealousies rose on her cheek;
She'd be bound his delay a new sweetheart had got,
And if he came now she'd not speak.

She sat herself down soon as got in the house,
No dossity in her to stir;
The cat at her presence left watching the mouse,
And the milk she might lap it for her,
Eat it all an she would, for she car'd not a pin,
She'd other fish frying as then;
And soon as chance offer'd that she could begin,
She 'gan weigh her doubts to her sen.

"Ah, the gipsy, she told me my fortune last night,
Too true have I prov'd what she said:
'You love him too warmly that loves you too light,'
And grievous she shaked her head;
'He scorns you -the lines of your hands,' she said, 'meet,'
I was fit to drop under my cow;
'It's as plain as the nose on your face for to see't,'
I could not believe it till now.

" How could I, when now but a day or two's gone,
Since he fuss'd me so up in the grove,
And preach'd like a parson as leading me on,
And seem'd like a saint fall'n in love?
He smilingly bid me behold the stiff bean,
How it held up the weak winding pea, -
'And so on my arm,' said he, 'Dolly may lean,
For I'll be a prop unto thee.'

"And oft did he shew me, as proofs of his love,
The gate, and the stile, where we came,
And many a favourite tree in the grove,
Where he had been marking my name:
And these made him staunch in my foolish esteem;
But deuce take such provings, forsooth,
They're like flimsy nick-nacks, that cheat in a dream,
When the morning sun wakes with the truth.

Last week I the first time 'gan doubt his respect,
When at market he left me behind;
He made no excuses to hide his neglect,
Plain proof that he'd changed his mind:
When I said how I loiter'd in hopes he would come,
And when all my troubles he learn'd,
How late and how wet I was ere I got home,
He ne'er seem'd a morsel concern'd.

"And magpies that chatter'd, no omen so black,
The dreams of my being a bride,
Odd crows that are constantly fix'd in my track,
Plain prov'd that bad luck would betide:
The coffin-spark burning my holiday-gown,
As nothing's so certain a sign;
The knives I keep crossing whenever laid down,
Were proofs of these sorrows of mine.

"A good-for-nought looby, he nettled me sore,
I minded him oft when at church,
How under the wenches' fine bonnets he'd glower,
As smiling they came in the porch:
Lord knows, scores of times he has made me to sin,
For, being so bother'd and vex'd,
'Bout the parson's good preaching I car'd not a pin,
And never once thought of the text.

"Like a fool, with full many a lying excuse,
To see him I've stole in the street,
And drest to entice him; but all's of no use,
'Tis folly such things to repeat:
No, no, his behaviour, a good-for-nought chap,
I'll see no uneasiness in it;
The wreath he last bought me, to dress my new cap,
I'll burn it to ashes this minute."

Thus she vented her griefs, and gave ease to her sighs,
Till the tinkled latch startled her dumb,
And ended her tale in a pause of surprise,
While hope whisper'd comfort, "he's come!"
He enter'd, and begg'd she'd excuse the late hour,
She doubts his assertions awhile,
Then as the glad sun breaks the clouds in a shower,
Tears melt in a welcoming smile.

Ah, sad disappointment! your damp chilly pain
And all jealous doubts you impart,
Description but mixes her colours in vain
To picture your horrors at heart.
Gall'd jealousy, like as the tide, ebbs to rest,
Subsiding as gradually o'er;
Contented she smother'd her sighs on his breast,
And the kiss seem'd as sweet as before.


TO AN INFANT DAUGHTER.

SWEET gem of infant fairy-flowers!
Thy smiles on life' unclosing hours,
Like sunbeams lost in summer showers,
They wake my fears;
When reason knows its sweets and sours,
They'll change to tears.

God help thee, little senseless thing!
Thou, daisy-like of early spring,
Of ambush'd winter's hornet sting
Hast yet to tell;
Thou know'st not what to-morrows bring:
I wish thee well.

But thou art come, and soon or late
'Tis thine to meet the frowns of fate,
The harpy grin of envy's hate,
And mermaid-smiles
Of worldly folly's luring bait,
That youth beguiles.

And much I wish, whate'er may be
The lot, my child, that falls to thee,
Nature may never let thee see
Her glass betimes,
But keep thee from my failings free, -
Nor itch at rhymes.

Lord knows my heart, it loves thee much;
And may my feelings, aches, and such,
The pains I meet in folly's clutch
Be never thine:
Child, it's a tender string to touch,
That sounds "thou'rt mine."


LANGLEY BUSH.

O LANGLEY BUSH! the shepherd's sacred shade,
Thy hollow trunk oft gain'd a look from me;
Full many a journey o'er the heath I've made,
For such-like curious things I love to see.
What truth the story of the swain allows,
That tells of honours which thy young days knew,
Of "Langley Court" being kept beneath thy boughs
I cannot tell -thus much I know is true,
That thou art reverenc'd: even the rude clan
Of lawless gipsies, driven from stage to stage,
Pilfering the hedges of the husbandman,
Spare thee, as sacred, in thy withering age.
Both swains and gipsies seem to love thy name,
Thy spot's a favourite with the sooty crew,
And soon thou must depend on gipsy-fame,
Thy mouldering trunk is nearly rotten through.
My last doubts murmur on the zephyr's swell,
My last look lingers on thy boughs with pain;
To thy declining age I bid farewel,
Like old companions, ne'er to meet again.


SORROW FOR A FAVOURITE TABBY CAT,
WHO LEFT THIS SCENE OF TROUBLES, FRIDAY NIGHT,
NOV. 26, 1819.

LET brutish hearts, as hard as stones,
Mock The weak Muse's tender moans,
As now she wails o'er Titty's bones
With anguish deep;
Doubtless o'er parent's dying groans
They'd little weep.

Ah, Pity! thine's a tender heart,
Thy sigh soon heaves, thy tears soon start;
And thou hast given the muse her part
Salt tears to shed,
To mourn and sigh with sorrow's smart;
For pussy's dead.

Ah, mourning Memory! 'neath thy pall
Thou utterest many a piercing call,
Pickling in vinegar's sour gall
Ways that are fled -
The way, the feats, the tricks, and all,
Of pussy dead.

Thou tell'st of all the gamesome plays
That mark'd her happy kitten-days:
-Ah, I did love her funny way
On the sand floor;
But now sad sorrow damps my lays:
Pussy's no more.

Thou paint'st her flirting round and round,
As she was wont, with things she'd found,
Chasing the spider o'er the ground,
Straws pushing on;
Thou paint'st them on a bosom-wound:
Poor pussy's gone.

Ah mice, rejoice! ye've lost your foe,
Who watch'd your scheming robberies so,
That while she liv'd twa'n't yours to know
A crumb of bread;
'Tis yours to triumph, mine's the woe,
Now pussy's dead.

While pussy liv'd ye'd empty maws;
No sooner peep'd ye out your nose,
But ye were instant in her claws
With squeakings dread:
Ye're now set free from tyrant-laws;
Poor pussy's dead.

Left freely here to prowl at night,
To wake me, like some squeaking sprite,
There's nothing now but ye dare bite,
Your terror's fled;
Put up I must with all your spite,
Poor pussy's dead.

But if "wide nicks" ye mean to run,
To scoop my barley crust in fun,
And drop your tails on't when ye've done,
Beware your head;
Or ye'll find what ye'd wish to shun,
Though pussy's dead.

As sure's you're born within your clothes,
If puss can't nab ye by the nose,
I'll find a scheme ye'd ill-suppose
To save my bread;
Ye may'nt too much infringe the laws,
If pussy's dead.

So don't ye drive your jokes too far,
Ye cupboard-plunderers as ye are;
For while I've sixpence left to spare,
And traps are had,
I'll make among ye dreadful war,
Though pussy's dead.

And now, poor puss! thou'st lost thy breath,
And decent laid the molds beneath,
As ere a cat could wish in death
For her last bed;
This to thy memory I bequeath,
Poor pussy dead!


THE WIDOWER'S LAMENT.

AGE yellows my leaf with a daily decline,
And nature turns sick with decay;
Short is the thread on life's spool that is mine,
And few are my wishes to stay:
The bud, that has seen but the sun of an hour,
When storms overtake it may sigh;
But fruit, that has weather'd life's sunshine and shower,
Drops easy and gladly to die.

The prop of my age, and the balm of my pain,
With the length of life's years has declin'd;
And, like the last sheep of the flock on the plain,
She leaves me uneasy behind:
I think of the days when our hearts they were one,
And she of my youth was the pride;
I look for the prop of my age, but it's gone,
And I long to drop down by her side.


SUNDAY.

THE Sabbath-day, of every day the best,
The poor mans happiness, a poor man sings;
When labour has no claim to break his rest,
And the light hours fly swift on easy wings.
What happiness this holy morning brings,
How soft its pleasures on his senses steal;
How sweet the village-bells' first warning rings;
And O how comfortable does he feel,
When with his family at ease he takes his early meal.

The careful wife displays her frugal hoard,
And both partake in comfort though they're poor;
While love's sweet offsprings crowd the lowly board,
Their little likenesses in miniature.
Though through the week he labour does endure,
And weary limbs oft cause him to complain,
This welcome morning always brings a cure;
It teems with joys his soul to entertain,
And doubly sweet appears the pleasure after pain.

Ah, who call tell the bliss, from labour freed,
His leisure meeteth on a Sunday morn,
Fix'd in a chair, some godly book to read,
Or wandering round to view the crops of corn,
In best clothes fitted out, and beard new shorn;
Dropping adown in some warm shelter'd dell,
With six days' labour weak and weary worn;
List'ning around each distant chiming bell,
That on the soft'ning breeze melodiously doth swell.

And oft he takes his family abroad
In short excursions o'er the field and plain,
Marking each little object on his road,
An insect, sprig of grass, and ear of grain;
Endeavouring thus most simply to maintain
That the same Power that bids the mite to crawl,
That browns the wheat-lands in their summer-stain,
That Power which form'd the simple flower withal,
Form'd all that lives and grows upon this earthly ball.

The bell, when knoll'd its summons once and twice,
Now chimes in concert, calling all to prayers;
The rustic boy that hankers after vice,
And of religion little knows or cares,
Scrapes up his marbles, and by force repairs,
Though dallying on till the last bell has rung: -
The good man there his book devoutly bears,
And often, as he walks the graves among,
Looks on the untravel'd dust from whence his being sprung.

The service ended, boys their play resume
In some snug corner from the parson's view,
And where the searching clerk forgets to come;
There they their games and rural sports pursue,
With chuck and marbles wearing Sunday through:
The poor man seeks his cottage-hearth again,
And brings his family the text to view
From which the parson's good discourse was ta'en,
Which with what skill he may he labours to explain.

Hail, sacred sabbath! hail, thou poor man's joy!
Thou oft hast been a comfort to my care,
When faint and weary with the week's employ
I met thy presence in my corner-chair,
Musing and bearing up with troubles there;
Thrice hail, thou heavenly boon! by God's decree
At first creation plann'd, that all might share,
Both man and beast, some hours from labour free,
To offer thanks to Him whose mercy sent us thee.

This day the field a sweeter clothing wears,
A Sunday scene looks brighter to the eye;
And hast'ning on to Monday morning's cares
With double speed the wing'd hour gallops by.
How swift the sun streaks down the western sky,
Scarcely perceiv'd till it begins to wane,
When ploughboys mark his setting with a sigh,
Dreading the morn's approaching hours with pain,
When capon's restless calls awake to toil again.

As the day closes on its peace and rest,
The godly man sits down and takes "the book,"
To close it in a manner deem'd the best;
And for a suiting chapter doth he look,
That may for comfort and a guide be took:
He reads of patient Job, his trials' thrall,
How men are troubled when by God forsook,
And prays with David to bear up with all; -
When sleep shuts up the scene, soft as the nightdews fall.


A LOOK AT THE HEAVENS.

O WHO can witness with a careless eye
The countless lamps that light an evening sky,
And not be struck with wonder at the sight!
To think what mighty Power must there abound,
That burns each spangle with a steady light,
And guides each hanging world its rolling round.
What multitudes my misty eye have found;
The countless numbers speak a Deity:
In numbers numberless the skies are crown'd,
And still they're nothing which my sight can see,
When science, searching through her aiding glass,
In seeming blanks to me can millions trace;
While millions more, that every heart impress,
Still brighten up throughout eternal space.
O Power Almighty! whence these beings shine,
All wisdom's lost in comprehending thine.


TO A CITY GIRL.

SWEET Mary, though nor sighs nor pains
Impassion'd courtship prove,
My simple song the truth ne'er feigns
To win thee to my love:
I ask thee from thy bustling life,
Where nought can pleasing prove,
From city noise, and care, and strife
O come, and be my love!

If harmless mirth delight thine eyes,
Then make my cot thy home;
The country-life abounds with joys,
And whispers thee to come;
Here fiddles urge thy nimble feet
Adown the dance to move,
Here pleasures in continuance meet -
O come, and be my love!

If music's charm, that all delights,
Has witcheries for thee,
The country then my love invites,
In echoed melody;
Here thrushes chant their madrigals,
Here breathes the ringed dove
Soft as day's closing murmur falls -
O come, and be my love!

If nature's prospects, wood, and vale,
Thy visits can entice,
The country's scenes thy coming hail,
To meet a paradise;
Here pride can raise no barring wall
To hide the flower and grove,
Here fields are gardens, free for all -
O come, and be my love!

If music, mirth, and all combine
To make my cot thy home,
To tempt thee, Mary, to be mine,
Then why delay to come?
Here night-birds sing my love to sleep,
Here sweet thy dreams shall prove,
Here in my arms shall Mary creep -
O come, and be my love!


TO HEALTH.

HAIL, soothing balm! Ye breezes blow,
Ransack the flower and blossom'd tree;
All, all your stolen gifts bestow,
For Health has granted all to me.

And may this blessing long be mine,
May I this favour still enjoy;
Then never shall my heart repine,
Nor yet its long continuance cloy.

And though I cannot boast, O Health!
Of aught beside, but only thee;
I would not change this bliss for wealth,
No, not for all the eye can see.

Wealth without thee is useless made,
Void of the smallest happy spark;
Yes, just as useless to give aid,
As mirrors set to light the dark.

Thy voice I hear, thy form I see,
In silence, echo, stream, or cloud;
Now, that strong voice belongs to thee
Which woods and hills repeat so loud.

The leaf, the flower, the spiry blade,
The hanging drops of pearly dew,
The russet heath, the woodland shade,
All, all can bring thee in my view.

With thee I seek the woodland shade
Beset in briery wilds among;
With thee I tread the tufted glade,
Transported by the woodlark's song.

With thee I wander where the sheep
In groups display a checquer'd train,
Where weedy waters winding creep;
Nor wilt thou fallow-clod disdain.

Then hail, sweet charm! Ye breezes blow,
Ransack the flower and blossom'd tree;
All, all your stolen gifts bestow,
For Health has granted all to me.


ABSENCE.

"WHAT ails my love, where can he be?
He never broke a vow,
Though twice the clock's reminded me
That he's deceiv'd me now.
Through some bad girl, I well know that,
Poor Peggy's love's forgot:"
Thus sigh'd a lass, as down she sat
On the appointed spot.

The night was gathering dark and deep,
But absent was the swain;
The dews on many a flower did weep,
But Peggy wept in vain:
And every noise that meets her ear,
And fancy of her eye,
Hope instant wipes away the tear,
And paints the shepherd nigh.

"Ah, now he comes, my cheek glows hot,
His dog barks to the sheep!"
Alas, her own dog lay forgot,
Loud whimpering in his sleep.
"He rustles down the wood-path park,
The boughs hung o'er it stirr'd!" -
Alas, her Rover's dreaming bark
Awoke a startled bird.

Again he look'd, and once again
Hop'd she her love should see,
A glimpse of moonlight checq'd the plain -
"Ah, here he comes, 'tis he!"
The trees hung o'er the shady way,
'Twas but a shadow'd oak.
The stock-dove wak'd the mimic lay,
" Ah, there my Henry spoke!"

" Ah, this is he! I know his tread!"
Again her hope's a dream;
Her wandering cows had left their shed,
And jump'd across the stream.
"Ah, then he spoke, 'twas Henry plain!"
She felt she knew not how;
Alas, the clock but told again
That he had broke his vow.

When wearied out, her home she seeks,
Where nought could please her view;
The tear stole silent down her cheeks,
Two rose-leaves in the dew:
Her auburn hair with sweetest grace
That down her temples spread,
The night-breeze wip'd it from her face,
And kiss'd her in his stead.

THE VILLAGE MINSTREL AND OTHER POEMS: PART 6