THE

VILLAGE MINSTREL

AND OTHER POEMS [Cont.]

[PART 7]

ROSY JANE.

THE eve put on her sweetest shroud,
The summer-dress she's often in,
Freck'd with white and purple cloud,
Dappled like a leopard's skin;
The martin, by the cotter's shed,
Had welcom'd eve with twittering song;
The blackbird sang the sun to bed,
Old Oxey's briery dells among:

When o'er the field tript rosy Jane,
Fair as the flowers she treaded on;
But she was gloomy for her swain,
Who long to fight the French had gone;
She milk'd, and sang her mournful song,
As, how an absent maid did moan,
Who for a soldier sorrowed long,
That went and left her, like her own.

Though dreadful drums had ceas'd their noise,
And peace proclaim'd returning Joe,
Delays so lingering dampt her joys,
And expectation nettled woe:
Hope, mix'd with fear and doubts the while,
Look'd for his coming every hour;
As one, when spring begins to smile,
Awaits the early opening flower.

With doubtful eyes we view the bud;
Though sweet the sun smiles on it then,
A blighting storm may tear the wood,
And blast our promises again:
With soldiers, danger's always near;
Poor Jane had deepest cause to sigh; -
To-day, peace smiles with little fear,
The next, war bursts, and Joe may die.

Each morn, from window of her cot,
Adown the road she strain'd her eye;
Each eve she wander'd to the spot
Where Joe had bid his last "Good bye ;"
Where love had breath'd its last, last vow,
Where each their keep-sake trifles gave;
His prov'd love warm'd her bosom now, -
"This will I carry to my grave."

So said he, looking on the box
With poesy on the lid bespread;
So said he, while the curling locks
Her own hand sever'd from her head;
While she wip'd off the tear-drops free
With 'kerchief marked with his name,
And vow'd his ribbon then should be
Her Sunday head-dress till he came.

Thus Jenny's heart was drooping sad;
Her hopes and fears were then at strife,
Lest false should prove her soldier-lad,
And home return with foreign wife:
Yet the last oath her love had ta'en
Would hearten up her soul awhile, -
'Should war return me safe to Jane,
No maid on earth shall me beguile."

Thus Jane sat milking, full of thought,
As doubtful how the case might prove:
--'Luck comes unlook'd for and unsought,'
So gossips say of wealth and love:
How true their wisdom turneth out,
How oft fulfill'd we little know;
But Jane proves once, without a doubt,
What dames oft told to soothe her woe.

Old Joe the woodman, with his kid,
Went home as warn'd the setting sun;
And stand and rest he often did,
To talk with Jane about his son:
True to his sunset-clock he kept,
His Goody and his cot to find,
When strange to say, with strutting step,
To-night a soldier skipt behind.

His jacket shone so red, so gay
His feather o'er his cap did hing,
And in the fine genteelly way
He'd learn'd his ribbon'd cane to swing:
Unus'd to see the flashing sight,
The startled thrush broke off her strain;
The sheep forgot their grass to bite,
And stared up at the passing swain.

Jane's 'skewing cow was struck with fear,
And kick'd the milkpail on the ground,
Which made her shed another tear,
To think she nought but sorrow found;
But woodman Joe revers'd the plan,
And bawl'd, "My wench, ne'er mind your fall:
Dry up your tears; I bring the man
Shall hide your loss, and pay for all."

Ah, sure enough, 'twas him she wist;
She 'member'd well the face of Joe,
And almost swooned while he kiss'd,
So sudden pleasure banish'd woe:
"My Jane," he cried, "thy tears dry up;"
His heart with love was beating warm,
He took the empty milkpail up,
And led her homeward on his arm.

Old Joe stumpt 'hind them on the road,
Heart-lighten'd from war-breeding woes,
And when the son begg'd take his load,
He said the sticks would spoil his clothes:
Since he so happy went from toil,
'Twas many a long and weary day;
And, stumping on, would often smile
To think what dame at home would say.

The swain was busied all the way
To tell his Jane of all he'd seen,
And talk about the parting day,
When last they met upon the green;
And show the 'bacco box the while,
And to the parting vow refer,
And hint, when absent many a mile,
How such things made him think of her.

And still her lock of hair he'd got,
And near his heart the prize possess'd;
But Jenny's wonder knew it not,
Weav'd in a brooch upon his breast:
His wisdom fill'd her with surprise,
Since he had left his ploughs and carts;
She thought, than home-bred louts, how wise
The people were in foreign parts.

Ere half-way home Joe had her led,
With eager speed each passing swain
The news around the village spread,
"Jane's sweetheart Joe's return'd again!"
Old Goody stopt her wheel, and smil'd,
And sought her cloke 'tween joy and pain,
And took her stick, to meet her child
She little hoped to see again.

Ah, come and gone were many years
Since Joe with soldiers took his quart,
And laugh'd to scorn his mother's tears, -
That thorny thought still prick'd his heart:
Poor tottering soul, her head was grey,
And grief and age had wrink'd her brow,
So alter'd since his parting day,
He hardly knew his mother now.

But tear-drops ready stood to start
At whispering nature's warm command,
"O, here's my mother!" leapt his heart -
He instant grasp'd her trembling hand:
O'ercome with joy, "My boy!" she said,
And on his propping arm reclin'd,
"Death now may come without a dread,
I've found the all I wish'd to find."

That night around the cottage hearth
Did meet the friends of maid and swain,
And every heart was fill'd with mirth,
And blest I ween were Joe and Jane:
Though Joe's old folks did lowly prove,
And Jane's could boast cows, ploughs, and carts,
They said they'd ne'er control her love,
But wish'd them joy with all their hearts.

Joe told the wonder that he knew,
And all the dangers of the wars;
And then, to prove his story true,
Unbrac'd his coat to show his scars:
The old folks saw, and blest their child;
Each drank to the intended bride,
And brought her milk-loss up, and smil'd,
And wish'd no worse luck might betide.

Next day being Sunday, folks believ'd
They would be ask'd at church that day;
But Joe the gossips' thoughts deceiv'd,
And brought it in a nearer way:
He long ago did ring provide,
And wealth in dangerous wars had ta'en,
So he with licence bought his bride,
And crown'd the bliss of rosy Jane.


CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS.

"Perhaps it is foolish to remark it, but there are times and
places when I am a child at those things" MACKENZIE.

EACH scene of youth to me's a pleasing toy,
Which memory, like a lover, doats upon;
And mix'd with them I am again a boy,
With tears and sighs regretting pleasures gone.

Ah! with enthusiast excesses wild
The scenes of childhood meet my moist'ning eye,
And with the very weakness of a child
I feel the raptures of delights gone by.

And still I fancy, as around I stroll
Each boyish scene, to mark the sport and game,
Others are living with a self-like soul,
That think, and love such trifles, just the same.

An old familiar spot I witness here,
With young companions where we oft have met:
Tho' since we play'd 'tis bleach'd with many a year,
The sports as warmly thrill my bosom yet.

Here winds the dyke where oft we jump'd across,
'Tis just as if it were but yesternight;
There hangs the gate we call'd our wooden horse,
Where we in see-saw ridings took delight.

And every thing shines round me just as then,
Mole-hills, and trees, and bushes speckling wild,
That freshen all those pastimes up agen -
O grievous day that chang'd me from a child!

To seek the plaything and the pleasing toy,
The painted pooty-shell and summer-flowers,
How blest was I when I was here a boy;
What joys were mine in those delightful hours!

On this same bank I bound my posies up,
And cull'd the sweetest blossoms one by one;
The cowslips still entice me down to stoop,
But all the feelings they inspir'd are gone.

Though in the midst of each endear'd delight,
Where still the cowslips to the breezes bow,
Though all my childish scenes are in my sight,
Sad manhood marks me an intruder now.

Here runs the brook which I have damm'd and stopt
With choking sods, and water-weeds, and stones,
And watch'd with joy till bursting off it plopt,
In rushing gushes of wild murmuring groans.

Here stands the tree with clasping ivy bound,
Which oft I've climb'd, to see the men at plough,
And checquer'd fields for many a furlong round,
Rock'd by the winds upon its topmost bough.

Ah, on this bank how happy have I felt,
When here I sat and mutter'd nameless songs,
And with the shepherd-boy, and neatherd, knelt
Upon yon rush-beds, plaiting whips and thongs.

Fond memory warms, as here with gravel-shells
I pil'd my fancied cots and walled rings,
And scoop'd with wooden knife my little wells,
And fill'd them up with water from the springs.

Ah, memory sighs, now hope my heart beguiles
To build as yet snug cots to cheer despair,
While fate at distance mocks with grinning smiles,
And calls my structures "castles in the air."

Now e'en the thistles quaking in the wind,
The very rushes nodding o'er the green,
Hold each expressive language to my mind,
And, like old comrades, tell of what has been.

O "sweet of sweets" from infancy that flow,
When can we witness bliss so sweet as then?
Might I but have my choice of joy below,
I'd only ask to be a boy agen.

Life owns no joy so pleasant as the past,
That banish'd pleasure, wrapt in memory's womb:
It leaves a flavour sweet to every taste,
Like the sweet substance of the honey-comb.


SONG.

A BEAUTIFUL flower, that bedeck'd a mean pasture,
In virgin perfection I found;
Its fair bloom stood naked to every disaster,
And deep the storm gather'd around:
The rose in the midst of its brambles is blooming,
Whose weapons intruders alarm,
But sweetest of blossoms, fond, fair, and weak woman
Has nothing to guard her from harm.

Each stranger seem'd struck with a blossom so lovely,
In such a lone valley that grew;
The clown's admiration was cast on it roughly
While blushing it shrank from his view:
O sweet was the eve when I found the fair blossom,
Sure never seem'd blossom so fair,
I instant transplanted its charms to my bosom,
And deep has the root gather'd there.


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 must 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 many 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 patrole,
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 rugged 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-nipt 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 turn 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 foot-ball 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 us 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 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 does 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 hours 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 bless 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.


IMPROMPTU.

"Where art thou wandering, little child?"
I said to one I met to-day -
She push'd her bonnet up and smil'd,
"I'm going upon the green to play:
Folks tell me that the May's in flower,
That cowslip-peeps are fit to pull,
And I've got leave to spend an hour
To get this little basket full."

--And thou'st got leave to spend an hour !
My heart repeated - she was gone;
--And thou hast heard the thorn's in flower,
And childhood bliss is urging on:
Ah, happy child! thou mak'st me sigh,
This once as happy heart of mine,
Would nature with the boon comply,
How gladly would I change for thine.


RECOLLECTIONS AFTER AN EVENING WALK.

JUST as the even-bell rang, we set out
To wander the fields and the meadows about;
And the first thing we mark'd that was lovely to view,
Was the sun hung on nothing, just bidding adieu:
He seem'd like a ball of pure gold in the west,
In a cloud like a mountain blue, dropping to rest;
The skies all around him were ting'd with his rays,
And the trees at a distance seem'd all on a blaze,
Till, lower and lower, he sank from our sight,
And the blue mist came creeping with silence and night.
The woodman then ceas'd with his hatchet to hack,
And bent away home with his kid on his back;
The mower too lapt up his scythe from our sight,
And put on his jacket, and bid us good-night;
The thresher once lumping, we heard him no more,
He left his barn-dust, and had shut up his door;
The shepherd had told all his sheep in his pen,
And humming his song, sought his cottage agen:
But the sweetest of all seeming music to me,
Were the songs of the clumsy brown-beetle and bee;
The one was seen hast'ning away to his hive,
The other was just from his sleeping alive,--
'Gainst our hats he kept knocking as if he'd no eyes,
And when batter'd down he was puzzled to rise.
The little gay moth too was lovely to view,
A dancing with lily-white wings in the dew;
He whisk'd o'er the water-pudge flirting and airy,
And perch'd on the down-headed grass like a fairy.
And there came the snail from his shell peeping out,
As fearful and cautious as thieves on the rout;
The sly jumping frog too had ventur'd to tramp,
And the glow-worm had just 'gun to light up his lamp;
To sip of the dew the worm peep'd from his den,
But dreading our footsteps soon vanish'd agen:
And numbers of creatures appear'd in our sight,
That live in the silence and sweetness of night,
Climbing up the tall grasses or scaling the bough,
But these were all nameless, unnotic'd till now.
And then we wound round 'neath the brook's willow row,
And look'd at the clouds that kept passing below;
The moon's image too, in the brook we could see't,
As if 'twas the other world under our feet;
And we listen'd well pleas'd at the guggles and groans
The water made passing the pebbles and stones.
And then we turn'd up by the rut-rifted lane,
And sought for our cot and the village again;
For night gather'd round, and shut all from the eye,
And a black sultry cloud crept all over the sky;
The dew on the bush, soon as touch'd it would drop,
And the grass 'neath our feet was as wet as a mop:
And, as to the town we approach'd very fast,
The bat even popp'd in our face as he past;
And the crickets sang loud as we went by the house,
And by the barn-side we saw many a mouse
Quirking round for the kernels that, litter'd about,
Were shook from the straw which the thresher hurl'd out.
And then we came up to our cottage once more,
And shut out the night-dew, and lock'd up the door;
The dog bark'd a welcome, well-pleas'd at our sight,
And the owl o'er our cot flew, and whoop'd a "good-night."


BALLAD.

WINTER'S gone, the summer breezes
Breathe the shepherd's joys again,
Village scene no longer pleases,
Pleasures meet upon the plain;
Snows are fled that hung the bowers,
Buds to blossoms softly steal,
Winter's rudeness melts in flowers: -
Charmer, leave thy spinning wheel,
And tend the sheep with me.

Careless here shall pleasures lull thee,
From domestic troubles free;
Rushes for thy couch I'll pull thee,
In the shade thy seat shall be;
All the flower-buds will I get
Spring's first sunbeams do unseal,
Primrose, cowslip, violet: -
Charmer, leave thy spinning wheel,
And tend the sheep with me.

Cast away thy "twilly willy,"
Winter's warm protecting gown,
Storms no longer blow to chill thee;
Come with mantle loosely thrown,
Garments, light as gale's embraces,
That thy lovely shape reveal;
Put thou on thy airy dresses: -
Charmer, leave thy spinning wheel,
And tend the sheep with me.

Sweet to sit where brooks are flowing,
Pleasant spreads the gentle heat,
On the green's lap thyme is growing,
Every molehill forms a seat:
Fear not suns 'cause thou'rt so fair,
In the thorn-bower we'll conceal;
Ne'er a sunbeam pierces there: -
Charmer, leave thy spinning wheel,
And tend the sheep with me.


A SIGH, IN A PLAY-GROUND.

O HAPPY spot! how much the sight of thee
Wakes the endearments of my infancy:
The very trees, through which the wild-winds sigh,
Seem whispering now some joys of youth gone by;
And each spot round, so sacred to my sight,
Hints at some former moment of delight.
Each object there still warmly seems to claim
Tender remembrance of some childish game;
Still on the slabs, before yon door that lie,
The top seems spinning in fond memory's eye;
And fancy's echo still yon field resounds
With noise of blind-man's buff, and fox-and-hounds.
Ah, as left rotting 'neath its mossy crown
The pile stands sacred o'er some past renown,
So thou, dear spot, though doubtless but to me,
Art sacred from the joys possess'd in thee,
That rose, and shone, and set - a sun's sojourn;
As quick in speed, - alas, without return!


NARRATIVE VERSES,
WRITTEN AFTER AN EXCURSION FROM HELPSTONE TO BURGHLEY PARK

THE faint sun tipt the rising ground,
No blustering wind, the air was still;
The blue mist, thinly scatter'd round,
Verg'd along the distant hill:
Delightful morn! from labour free
I jocund met the south-west gale,
While here and there a busy bee
Humm'd sweetly o'er the flow'ry vale.

O joyful morn! on pleasure bent,
Down the green slopes and fields I flew;
And through the thickest covert went,
Which hid me from the public view:
Nor was it shame, nor was it fear,
No, no, it was my own dear choice;
I love the briary thicket, where
Echo keeps her mocking voice.

The sun's increasing heat was kind,
His warm beams cheer'd the vales around:
I left my own fields far behind,
And, pilgrim-like, trod foreign ground;
The glowing landscape's charms I caught,
Where'er I look'd or wander'd o'er,
And every wood and field methought
A greener, brighter prospect wore.

Delicious morn! thou'lt always find,
When even pastime intervenes,
A vacant opening in my mind
To think and cherish thy fond scenes;
Though no huge rock approach'd my sight,
Nor lofty mountain rear'd its head,
Enough for wonder and delight
All around my path was spread.

Sometimes musing on the sky,
Then list'ning to the waterfall,
Now marking sunbeams mounted high
Glistening shine on Walkherd hall--
Thus I often made a stand,
Thus I mark'd each curious spot,
And, seemingly to court my hand,
I now and then a cowslip got.

But, Barnack Simmons, thine's the place,
Where antique forms are dimly shewn;
There, o'er thy moss-grown hills, I trace
Scenes which never will be known:
The deep-sunk moat, the stony mound,
Brought o'er my mind a pensive fit;
But "ah," thought I, while looking round,
"Their heads don't ache that made yon pit."

O thou long-remember'd morn,
How blest was I in these dear vales,
When snugly hid beneath the thorn
I mus'd o'er Bloomfield's "Rural Tales:"
And there, sweet bard! thy "forest-song,"
Describ'd with energy sublime,
Fraught with such music, charm'd my tongue,
And turn'd my simple thoughts to rhyme.

Thus ever varying my mind,
Ever running like the rill,
Soon I left these scenes behind
In quest of others brighter still;
Yet not for ever! no, ye vales,
I love your pleasant shades too well,
And often since to view your dales
I've brush'd along the upland swell.

Now nothing, save a running stream,
For awhile my eye engag'd,
Whose plaintive murmurs sooth'd my dream,
And all aspiring thoughts assuag'd;
Now, when near its mossy bank,
I well remember how I lay,
Stretching o'er the oaken plank
To see the dancing beetles play.

Though the stranger passing by
Scarcely gave a single look,
Yet for a whole day could I lie
And pore upon this little brook;
Well pleas'd to view its winding rounds,
And see the eddying purls it made,
But still its daisy-skirted bounds,
Like "Barnham water," want a shade.

The passing hours jogg'd on apace,
And in their progress seem'd to say
"Haste, and gain that destin'd place,
Or soon thou'lt lose the flitting day :"
I instantly obey'd their call,
Nor went to where the footpath lay,
But clamber'd o'er an old rough wall,
And stole across the nearest way.

No spire I caught, nor woody swell,
My eye confin'd to lower bounds,
Yet not to mark the flowret's bell,
But watch the owners of the grounds;
Their presence was my only fear,
No boughs to shield me if they came,
And soon amid my rash career
I deem'd such trespassing to blame.

For troubled thoughts began to rise,
Of ills almost beyond relief
Which might from this one cause arise,
And leave me then to want reprief;
So arguing with myself how vain
An afterthought, "still to keep free"
Made me to seek the road again,
And own the force of liberty.

For oh, its unabated power
Did then my breast with raptures fill,
And sure it was a happy hour
That led me up to Barnack hill;
There uncontroll'd I knew no bounds,
But look'd o'er villages a crowd,
And cots and spires to farthest rounds,
While far trees seem'd a misty cloud?

When tir'd with such far-stretching views,
I left the green hill's sideling slope,
But O so tempting was the muse,
She made me wish, she made me hope;
I wish'd and hoped that future days
(For scenes prophetic fill'd my breast)
Would grant to me a crown of bays
By singing maids and shepherds drest.

These for awhile gave such delight,
And occupied my mind so strong,
That not one view could tempt my sight,
But all unheeded pass'd along;
Save only when that destin'd place,
As yet unknown, though long endear'd,
Enrich'd with many a nameless grace,
Through fancy's flitting eye appear'd.

THE VILLAGE MINSTREL AND OTHER POEMS: PART 8