VILLAGE MINSTREL
AND OTHER POEMS [Cont.]
[PART 8]
THE
VILLAGE MINSTREL
AND OTHER POEMS [Cont.]
[PART 8]
SONG.
Of all the days in memory's list,
Those motley banish'd days;
Some overhung with sorrow's mist,
Some gilt with hopeful rays;
There is a day 'bove all the rest
That has a lovely sound,
There is a day I love the best -
When Patty first was found.
When first I look'd upon her eye,
And all her charms I met,
There's many a day gone heedless by,
But that I'll ne'er forget;
I met my love beneath the tree,
I help'd her o'er the stile,
The very shade is dear to me
That blest me with her smile.
Strange to the world my artless fair,
But artless as she be,
She found the witching art when there
To win my heart from me;
And all the days the year can bring,
As sweet as they may prove,
There'll ne'er come one like that I sing,
Which found the maid I love.
HELPSTONE GREEN.
YE injur'd fields, ye once were gay,
When nature's hand display'd
Long waving rows of willows grey,
And clumps of hawthorn shade;
But now, alas! your hawthorn bowers
All desolate we see,
The spoilers' axe their shade devours,
And cuts down every tree.
Not trees alone have own'd their force,
Whole woods beneath them bow'd;
They turn'd the winding rivulet's course,
And all thy pastures plough'd;
To shrub or tree throughout thy fields
They no compassion show;
The uplifted axe no mercy yields,
But strikes a fatal blow.
Whene'er I muse along the plain,
And mark where once they grew,
Remembrance wakes her busy train
And brings past scenes to view:
The well-known brook, the favourite tree,
In fancy's eye appear,
And next, that pleasant green I see,
That green for ever dear.
O'er its green hills I've often stray'd
In childhood's happy hour,
Oft sought the nest along the shade
And gather'd many a flower;
And there, with playmates often join'd
In fresher sports to plan;
But now increasing years have coin'd
Those children into man.
The green s gone too - ah, lovely scene!
No more the kingcup gay
Shall shine in yellow o'er the green,
And shed its golden ray;
No more the herdsman's early call
Shall bring the cows to feed,
No more the milkmaid's evening bawl
In "Come mull" tones succeed.
Both milkmaid's shouts and herdsman's call
Have vanish'd with the green,
The kingcups yellow, shades and all,
Shall never more be seen;
But the thick-cultur'd tribes that grow
1 Will so efface the scene,
That after-times will hardly know
It ever was a green.
Farewel, thou favourite spot, farewel!
Since every effort's vain,
All 1 can do is still to tell
Of thy delightful plain;
But that joy's short; - increasing years,
That did my youth presage,
Will now, as each new day appears,
Bring on declining age.
Reflection pierces deadly keen,
While I the moral scan, -
As are the change of the green
So is the life of man:
Youth brings age with faultering tongue,
That does the exit crave;
There's one short scene presents the throng,
Another shows the grave.
TO THE VIOLET.
SWEET tiny flower of darkly hue,
Lone dweller in the pathless shade;
How much I love thy pensive blue
Of innocence so well display'd!
What time the watery skies are full
Of streaming dappled clouds so pale,
And sideling rocks, more white than wool,
Portending snowy sleet, or hail;
I 'gin to seek thy charming flower
Along each hedge-row's mossy seat,
Where, dithering many a cold bleak hour,
I've hugg'd myself in thy retreat.
What makes me cherish such fond taste,
What makes such raptures spring for thee,
Is, that thou lov'st the dreary waste
Which is so well belov'd by me.
For solitude should be my choice
Could I this labouring life resign,
To see the little birds rejoice,
And thy sweet flowers in clusters shine.
I'd choose a cave beside some rock,
Clos'd in all round with ash and thorn,
That near my door thy tribe might flock
To shed their sweets in early morn.
But, ah! that way would never prove
Means to sustain impending life;
I must forego those scenes I love,
And still beat on with needy strife.
Sweet flower ! we must reverse the plan,
Nor cherish such romantic views;
I'll strive to seek thee when I can,
Through noontide heat or evening dews.
To spring return, with all thy train
Of flowrets cloth'd in varied hue,
I long to see that morn again
Which brings to light the violet blue.
THE WOOD-CUTTER'S NIGHT SONG.
WELCOME, red and roundy sun,
Dropping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.
Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till morrow-morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
Though to leave your pretty song,
Little birds, it gives me pain,
Yet to-morrow is not long,
Then I'm with you all again.
If I stop, and stand about,
Well I know how things will be,
Judy will be looking out
Every now-and-then for me.
So fare-ye-well! and hold your tongues,
Sing no more until I come;
They're not worthy of your songs
That never care to drop a crumb.
All day long I love the oaks,
But, at nights, yon little cot,
Where I see the chimney smokes,
Is by far the prettiest spot.
Wife and children all are there,
To revive with pleasant looks,
Table ready set, and chair,
Supper hanging on the hooks.
Soon as ever I get in,
When my faggot down I fling,
Little prattlers they begin
Teasing me to talk and sing.
Welcome, red and roundy sun,
Dropping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.
Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till morrow-morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
SONG OF PRAISE.
IMITATION OF THE 148TH PSALM.
WARM into praises, kindling muse,
With grateful transport raise thy views
To Him, who moves this ball,
Who whirls, in silent harmony,
The earth, the ocean, air, and sky -
O praise the Lord of all!
Ye angels - hymning round your king,
Praise Him who gives you power to sing,
Ye hosts - with raptures burn;
Who station'd you in bliss, proclaim!
Oh, bless your benefactor's name,
Betokening kind return.
Ye spreading heavens, arching high,
Ye scenes unknown beyond the sky,
Creation's Maker own:
"Let there be light " - your Ruler said;
And instant your blue curtain spread
In triumph round his throne.
Thou moon, meek guardian of the night,
Ye planets of inferior light,
Ye lamps of rays divine,
Ye suns - dart forth your splendid rays
To Him who metes your nights and days,
And suffers you to shine.
O praise His name, His mercy bless,
Ye poor, like me, in 'whelmed distress;
O hail protection given:
When sin and sorrow die away, -
Our hopes His promise still shall stay
Of recompensing heaven.
Thunders that fright the trembling ground,
Ye forked lightnings, flashing round,
Or quench'd in 'whelming shower;
While skies in vollied rolls are rent, -
While nature pauses, silent bent, -
Adore Almighty Power.
Ye minstrel birds, wild woodland's charms,
Whose song each child of nature warms
With your lov'd haunts in view;
From Him you borrow'd every note,
Then open wide your chanting throat
To give the tribute due.
Mis-shapen germs of parent earth,
Waiting, dependent for your birth,
The sun's enlivening rays;
Emerging from your silent tomb,
To join the hailing myriads, come,
And kindle into praise.
Bowing adorers of the gale,
Ye cowslips, delicately pale,
Upraise your loaded stems;
Unfold your cups in splendor, speak!
Who deck'd you with that ruddy streak,
And gilt your golden gems?
Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple's richest pride array'd,
Your errand here fulfil;
Go bid the artist's simple stain
Your lustre imitate, in vain,
And match your Maker's skill.
Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
Embroiderers of the carpet earth,
That stud the velvet sod;
Open to spring's refreshing air,
In sweetest smiling bloom declare
Your Maker, and my God!
Thou humble clothing of the trees,
Moss, in whose meanness genius sees
A world of wonders shine;
Put on your satin-smoothening green,
And let your Maker's power be seen,
And workmanship divine.
Creation's universal round,
That beat the air, or press the ground,
Or plough the seas, the same,
All join in chorusing accord,
Exalt your Maker and your Lord,
And praise His holy name:
Till o'er this sin-consuming world
Destruction's fated doom is hurl'd,
And ruin's self decays;
Then, freed from sin and Adam's fall,
All join, and hail Him Lord of all,
In everlasting praise.
TO THE BUTTERFLY.
LOVELY insect, haste away,
Greet once more the sunny day;
Leave, O leave the murky barn,
Ere trapping spiders thee discern;
Soon as seen, they will beset
Thy golden wings with filmy net,
Then all in vain to set thee free,
Hopes all lost for liberty.
Never think that I belie,
Never fear a winter sky;
Budding oaks may now be seen,
Starry daisies deck the green,
Primrose groups the woods adorn,
Cloudless skies, and blossom'd thorn;
These all prove that spring is here,
Haste away then, never fear.
Skim o'er hill and valley free,
Perch upon the blossom'd tree;
Though my garden would be best,
Couldst thou but contended rest:
There the school-boy has no power
Thee to chase from flower to flower,
Harbour none for cruel sport,
Far away thy foes resort;
Nought is there but liberty,
Pleasant place for thee and me.
Then hither bend thy roving flight,
In my garden take delight.
Though the dew-bent level dale
Rears the lily of the vale,
Though the thicket's bushy dell
Tempts thee to the foxglove's bell,
Come but once within my bounds,
View my garden's airy rounds,
Soon thou'lt find the scene complete,
And every flowret twice as sweet:
Then, lovely insect, come away,
Greet once more the sunny day.
Oft I've seen, when warm and dry,
'Mong the bean-fields bosom high,
How thy starry gems and gold
To admiration would unfold:
Lo! the arching heavenly bow
Doth all his dyes on thee bestow,
Crimson, blue, and watery green,
Mix'd with azure shade between;
These are thine - thou first in place,
Queen of all the insect race!
And I've often thought, alone,
This to thee was not unknown;
For amid the sunny hour,
When I've found thee on a flower,
(Searching with minutest gleg,)
Oft I've seen thy little leg
Soft as glass o'er velvet glides
Smoothen down thy silken sides;
Then thy wings would ope and shut;
Then thou seemingly wouldst strut:
Was it nature, was it pride
Let the learned world decide.
Enough for me, (though some may deem
This a trifling, silly theme,)
Would'st thou in my garden come,
To join the bee's delightful hum;
These silly themes then, day and night,
Should be thy trifler's whole delight.
Then, lovely insect, haste away,
Greet once more the sunny day.
RURAL MORNING.
SOON as the twilight through the distant mist
In silver hemmings skirts the purple east,
Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to view
And dries the morning's chilly robes of dew,
Young Hodge the horse-boy, with a soodly gait,
Slow climbs the stile, or opes the creaky gate,
With willow switch and halter by his side
Prepar'd for Dobbin, whom he means to ride;
The only tune he knows still whistling o'er,
And humming scraps his father sung before,
As "Wantley Dragon," and the "Magic Rose,"
The whole of music that his village knows,
Which wild remembrance, in each little town,
From mouth to mouth through ages handles down.
Onward he jolls, nor can the minstrel-throngs
Entice him once to listen to their songs;
Nor marks he once a blossom on his way;
A senseless lump of animated clay -
With weather-beaten hat of rusty brown,
Stranger to brinks, and often to a crown;
With slop-frock suiting to the ploughman's taste,
Its greasy skirtings twisted round his waist;
And harden'd high-lows clench'd with nails around,
Clamping defiance o'er the stony ground,
The deadly foes to many a blossom'd sprout
That luckless meets him in his morning's rout.
In hobbling speed he roams the pasture round,
Till hunted Dobbin and the rest are found;
Where some, from frequent meddlings of his whip,
Well know their foe, and often try to slip;
While Dobbin, tam'd by age and labour, stands
To meet all trouble from his brutish hands,
And patient goes to gate or knowly brake,
The teasing burden of his foe to take;
Who, soon as mounted, with his switching weals,
Puts Dob's best swiftness in his heavy heels,
The toltering bustle of a blundering trot
Which whips and cudgels ne'er increas'd a jot,
Though better speed was urged by the clown -
And thus he snorts and jostles to the town.
And now, when toil and summer's in its prime,
In every vill, at morning's earliest time,
To early-risers many a Hodge is seen,
And many a Dob's heard clattering o'er the green.
Now straying beams from day's unclosing eye
In copper-colour'd patches flush the sky,
And from night's prison strugglingly encroach,
To bring the summons of warm day's approach,
Till, slowly mounting o'er the ridge of clouds
That yet half shows his face, and half enshrouds,
Th'unfetter'd sun takes his unbounded reign
And wakes all life to noise and toil again:
And while his opening mellows o'er the scenes
Of wood and field their many mingling greens,
Industry's bustling din once more devours
The soothing peace of morning's early hours:
The grunt of hogs freed from their nightly dens,
And constant cacklings of new-laying hens,
And ducks and geese that clamorous joys repeat
The splashing comforts of the pond to meet,
And chirping sparrows dropping from the eaves
For offal kernels that the poultry leaves,
Oft signal-calls of danger chittering high
At skulking cats and dogs approaching nigh,
And lowing steers that hollow echoes wake
Around the yard, their nightly fast to break,
As from each barn the lumping flail rebounds
In mingling concert with the rural sounds;
While o'er the distant fields more faintly creep
The murmuring bleatings of unfolding sheep,
And ploughmen's callings that more hoarse proceed
Where industry still urges labour's speed,
The bellowing of cows with udders full
That wait the welcome halloo of "come mull,"
And rumbling waggons deafening again,
Rousing the dust along the narrow lane,
And cracking whips, and shepherd's hooting cries,
From woodland echoes urging sharp replies.
Hodge, in his waggon, marks the wondrous tongue,
And talks with echo as he drives along;
Still cracks his whip, bawls every horse's name,
And echo still as ready bawls the same:
The puzzling mystery he would gladly cheat,
And fain would utter what it can't repeat,
Till speedless trials prove the doubted elf
As skill'd in noise and sounds as Hodge himself;
And, quite convinced with the proofs it gives,
The boy drives on and fancies echo lives,
Like some wood-fiend that frights benighted men,
The troubling spirit of a robber's den.
And now the blossom of the village view,
With airy hat of straw, and apron blue,
And short-sleev'd gown, that half to guess reveals
By fine-turn'd arms what beauty it conceals;
Whose cheeks health flushes with as sweet a red
As that which stripes the woodbine o'er her head;
Deeply she blushes on her morn's employ,
To prove the fondness of some passing boy,
Who, with a smile that thrills her soul to view,
Holds the gate open till she passes through,
While turning nods beck thanks for kindness done,
And looks - if looks could speak - proclaim her won.
With well-scour'd buckets on proceeds the maid,
And drives her cows to milk beneath the shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam to molest her steals -
Sweet as the thyme that blossoms where she kneels;
And there oft scares the cooing amorous dove
With her own favour'd melodies of love.
Snugly retir'd in yet dew-laden bowers,
This sweetest specimen of rural flowers
Displays, red glowing in the morning wind,
The powers of health and nature when combin'd.
Last on the road the cowboy careless swings,
Leading tam'd cattle in their tending strings,
With shining tin to keep his dinner warm
Swung at his back, or tuck'd beneath his arm;
Whose sun-burnt skin, and cheeks chuff'd out with fat,
Are dy'd as rusty as his napless hat.
And others, driving loose their herds at will,
Are now heard whooping up the pasture-hill;
Peel'd sticks they bear of hazel or of ash,
The rib-mark'd hides of restless cows to thrash.
In sloven garb appears each bawling boy,
As fit and suiting to his rude employ;
His shoes, worn down by many blundering treads,
Oft show the tenants needing safer sheds:
The pithy bunch of unripe nuts to seek,
And crabs sun-redden'd with a tempting cheek,
From pasture hedges, daily puts to rack
His tatter'd clothes, that scarcely screen the back, -
Daub'd all about as if besmear'd with blood,
Stain'd with the berries of the brambly wood
That stud the straggling briars as black as jet,
Which, when his cattle lair, he runs to get:
Or smaller kinds, as if begloss'd with dew,
Shining dim-powder'd with a downy blue,
That on weak tendrils lowly creeping grow
Where, choak'd in flags and sedges, wandering slow,
The brook purls simmering its declining tide
Down the crook'd boundings of the pasture-side.
There they to hunt the luscious fruit delight,
And dabbling keep within their charges' sight;
Oft catching prickly struttles on their rout,
And miller-thumbs and gudgeons driving out,
Hid near the arch'd brig under many a stone
That from its wall rude passing clowns have thrown.
And while in peace cows eat, and chew their cuds,
Moozing cool shelter'd 'neath the skirting woods,
To double uses they the hours convert,
Turning the toils of labour into sport;
Till morn's long streaking shadows lose their tails,
And cooling winds swoon into faultering gales;
And searching sunbeams warm and sultry creep,
Waking the teazing insects from their sleep;
And dreaded gadflies with their drowsy hum
On the burnt wings of mid-day zephyrs come, -
Urging each lown to leave his sports in fear,
To stop his starting cows that dread the fly;
Droning unwelcome tidings on his ear,
That the sweet peace of rural morn's gone by.
RURAL EVENING.
THE sun now sinks behind the woodland green,
And twittering spangles glow the leaves between;
So bright and dazzling on the eye it plays
As if noon's heat had kindled to a blaze,
But soon it dims in red and heavier hues,
And shows wild fancy cheated in her views.
A mist-like moisture rises from the ground,
And deeper blueness stains the distant round.
The eye each moment, as it gazes o'er,
Still loses objects which it mark'd before;
The woods at distance changing like to clouds,
And spire-points croodling under evening's shrouds;
Till forms of things, and hues of leaf and flower,
In deeper shadows, as by magic power,
With light and all, in scarce-perceiv'd decay,
Put on mild evening's sober garb of grey.
Now in the sleepy gloom that blackens round
Dies many a lulling hum of rural sound,
From cottage door, farm-yard, and dusty lane,
Where home the cart-horse tolters with the swain,
Or padded holm, where village boys resort,
Bawling enraptur'd o'er their evening sport,
Till night awakens superstition's dread
And drives them prisoners to a restless bed.
Thrice happy eve of days no more to me!
Whoever thought such change belong'd to thee?
When, like to boys whom now thy gloom surrounds,
I chas'd the stag, or play d at fox-and-hounds,
Or wander'd down the lane with many a mate
To play at see-saw on the pasture-gate,
Or on the threshold of some cottage sat
To watch the flittings of the shrieking bat,
Who, seemly pleas'd to mock our treacherous view,
Would even swoop and touch us as he flew,
And vainly still our hopes to entertain
Would stint his route, and circle us again, -
Till, wearied out with many a coaxing call
Which boyish superstition loves to bawl,
His shrill song shrieking he betook to flight,
And left us puzzled in short-sighted night.
Those days have fled me, as from them they steal;
And I've felt losses they must shortly feel;
But sure such ends make every bosom sore,
To think of pleasures we must meet no more.
Now from the pasture milking-maidens come,
With each a swain to bear the burden home,
Who often coax them on their pleasant way
To soodle longer out in love's delay;
While on a mole-hill, or a resting stile,
The simple rustics try their arts the while
With glegging smiles, and hopes and fears between,
Snatching a kiss to open what they mean:
And all the utmost that their tongues can do,
The honey'd words which nature earns to woo,
The wild-flower sweets of language, "love" and
"dear,"
With warmest utterings meet each maiden's ear;
Who as by magic smit, she knows not why,
From the warm look that waits a wish'd reply
Droops fearful down in love's delightful swoon,
As slinks the blossom from the suns of noon;
While sighs half-smother'd from the throbbing breast,
And broken words sweet trembling o'er the rest,
And cheeks, in blushes burning, turn'd aside,
Betray the plainer what she strives to hide.
The amorous swain sees through the feign'd disguise,
Discerns the fondness she at first denies,
And with all passions love and truth can move
Urges more strong the simpering maid to love;
More freely using toying ways to win--
Tokens that echo from the soul within -
Her soft hand nipping, that with ardour burns,
And, timid, gentlier presses its returns;
Then stealing pins with innocent deceit,
To loose the 'kerchief from its envied seat;
Then unawares her bonnet he'll untie,
Her dark-brown ringlets wiping gently by,
To steal a kiss in seemly feign'd disguise,
As love yields kinder taken by surprise:
While, nearly conquer'd, she less disapproves,
And owns at last, mid tears and sighs, she loves.
With sweetest feelings that this world bestows
Now each to each their inmost souls disclose,
Vow to be true; and to be truly ta'en,
Repeat their loves, and vow it o'er again;
And pause at loss of language to proclaim
Those purest pleasures, yet without a name:
And while, in highest ecstacy of bliss
The shepherd holds her yielding hand in his,
He turns to heaven to witness what he feels,
And silent shows what want of words conceals;
Then ere the parting moments hustle nigh,
And night in deeper dye his curtain dips,
Till next day's evening glads the anxious eye,
He swears his truth, and seals it on her lips.
At even's hour, the truce of toil, 'tis sweet
The sons of labour at their ease to meet,
On piled bench, beside the cottage door,
Made up of mud and stones and sodded o'er;
Where rustic taste at leisure trimly weaves
The rose and straggling woodbine to the eaves, -
And on the crowded spot that pales enclose
The white and scarlet daisy rears in rows, -
Training the trailing peas in bunches neat,
Perfuming evening with a luscious sweet, -
And sun-flowers planting for their gilded show,
That scale the window's lattice ere they blow,
Then, sweet to habitants within the sheds,
Peep through the diamond pane their golden heads:
Or at the shop where ploughs and harrows lie,
Well-known to every child that passes by:
From shining fragments littering on the floor,
And branded letters burnt upon the door;
Where meddling boys, the torment of the street,
In hard-burnt cinders ready weapons meet,
To pelt the martins 'neath the eves at rest,
That oft are wak'd to mourn a ruin'd nest;
Or sparrows, that delight their nests to leave,
In dust to flutter at the cool of eve.
For such-like scenes the gossip leaves her home,
And sons of labour light their pipes, and come.
To talk of wages, whether high or low,
And mumble news that still as secrets go;
When, heedless then to all the rest may say,
The beckoning lover nods the maid away,
And at a distance many an hour they seem
In jealous whisperings o'er their pleasing theme;
While children round them teasing sports prolong,
To twirl the top, or bounce the hoop along,
Or shout across the street their "one catch all,"
Or prog the hous'd bee from the cotter's wall.
Now at the parish cottage wall'd with dirt,
Where all the cumber-grounds of life resort,
From the low door that bows two props between,
Some feeble tottering dame surveys the scene;
By them reminded of the long-lost day
When she herself was young, and went to play;
And, turning to the painful scenes again,
The mournful changes she has met since then,
Her aching heart, the contrast moves so keen,
E'en sighs a wish that life had never been.
Still vainly sinning, while she strives to pray,
Half-smother'd discontent pursues its way
In whispering Providence, how blest she'd been,
If life's last troubles she'd escap'd unseen;
If, ere want sneak'd for grudg'd support from pride,
She had but shar'd of childhood's joys, and died.
And as to talk some passing neighbours stand,
And shove their box within her tottering hand,
She turns from echoes of her younger years,
And nips the portion of her snuff with tears.