MIDDLE PERIOD 1824-1836

The Stranger

When trouble haunts me, need I sigh? No, rather smile away despair; For those have been more sad than I, With burthens more than I could bear; Aye, gone rejoicing under care Where I had sunk in black despair.

When pain disturbs my peace and rest, Am I a hopeless grief to keep, When some have slept on torture's breast And smiled as in the sweetest sleep, Aye, peace on thorns, in faith forgiven, And pillowed on the hope of heaven?

Though low and poor and broken down, Am I to think myself distrest? No, rather laugh where others frown And think my being truly blest; For others I can daily see More worthy riches worse than me.

Aye, once a stranger blest the earth Who never caused a heart to mourn, Whose very voice gave sorrow mirth— And how did earth his worth return? It spurned him from its lowliest lot, The meanest station owned him not;

An outcast thrown in sorrow's way, A fugitive that knew no sin, Yet in lone places forced to stray— Men would not take the stranger in. Yet peace, though much himself he mourned, Was all to others he returned.

* * * * *

His presence was a peace to all, He bade the sorrowful rejoice. Pain turned to pleasure at his call, Health lived and issued from his voice. He healed the sick and sent abroad The dumb rejoicing in the Lord.

The blind met daylight in his eye, The joys of everlasting day; The sick found health in his reply; The cripple threw his crutch away. Yet he with troubles did remain And suffered poverty and pain.

Yet none could say of wrong he did, And scorn was ever standing bye; Accusers by their conscience chid, When proof was sought, made no reply. Yet without sin he suffered more Than ever sinners did before.

Song's Eternity

What is song's eternity? Come and see. Can it noise and bustle be? Come and see. Praises sung or praises said Can it be? Wait awhile and these are dead— Sigh, sigh; Be they high or lowly bred They die.

What is song's eternity? Come and see. Melodies of earth and sky, Here they be. Song once sung to Adam's ears Can it be? Ballads of six thousand years Thrive, thrive; Songs awaken with the spheres Alive.

Mighty songs that miss decay, What are they? Crowds and cities pass away Like a day. Books are out and books are read; What are they? Years will lay them with the dead— Sigh, sigh; Trifles unto nothing wed, They die.

Dreamers, mark the honey bee; Mark the tree Where the blue cap "tootle tee" Sings a glee Sung to Adam and to Eve Here they be. When floods covered every bough, Noah's ark Heard that ballad singing now; Hark, hark,

"Tootle tootle tootle tee"— Can it be Pride and fame must shadows be? Come and see— Every season own her own; Bird and bee Sing creation's music on; Nature's glee Is in every mood and tone Eternity.

The Old Cottagers

The little cottage stood alone, the pride Of solitude surrounded every side. Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall; A garden with its hawthorn hedge was all The space between.—Green light did pass Through one small window, where a looking-glass Placed in the parlour, richly there revealed A spacious landscape and a blooming field. The pasture cows that herded on the moor Printed their footsteps to the very door, Where little summer flowers with seasons blow And scarcely gave the eldern leave to grow. The cuckoo that one listens far away Sung in the orchard trees for half the day; And where the robin lives, the village guest, In the old weedy hedge the leafy nest Of the coy nightingale was yearly found, Safe from all eyes as in the loneliest ground; And little chats that in bean stalks will lie A nest with cobwebs there will build, and fly Upon the kidney bean that twines and towers Up little poles in wreaths of scarlet flowers.

There a lone couple lived, secluded there From all the world considers joy or care, Lived to themselves, a long lone journey trod, And through their Bible talked aloud to God; While one small close and cow their wants maintained, But little needing, and but little gained. Their neighbour's name was peace, with her they went, With tottering age, and dignified content, Through a rich length of years and quiet days, And filled the neighbouring village with their praise.

Young Lambs

The spring is coming by a many signs; The trays are up, the hedges broken down, That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines Like some old antique fragment weathered brown. And where suns peep, in every sheltered place, The little early buttercups unfold A glittering star or two—till many trace The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold. And then a little lamb bolts up behind The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe, And then another, sheltered from the wind, Lies all his length as dead—and lets me go Close bye and never stirs but baking lies, With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.

Early Nightingale

When first we hear the shy-come nightingales, They seem to mutter oer their songs in fear, And, climb we eer so soft the spinney rails, All stops as if no bird was anywhere. The kindled bushes with the young leaves thin Let curious eyes to search a long way in, Until impatience cannot see or hear The hidden music; gets but little way Upon the path—when up the songs begin, Full loud a moment and then low again. But when a day or two confirms her stay Boldly she sings and loud for half the day; And soon the village brings the woodman's tale Of having heard the newcome nightingale.

Winter Walk

The holly bush, a sober lump of green, Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey, And smiles at winter be it eer so keen With all the leafy luxury of May. And O it is delicious, when the day In winter's loaded garment keenly blows And turns her back on sudden falling snows, To go where gravel pathways creep between Arches of evergreen that scarce let through A single feather of the driving storm; And in the bitterest day that ever blew The walk will find some places still and warm Where dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarm To little birds that flirt and start away.

The Soldier

Home furthest off grows dearer from the way; And when the army in the Indias lay Friends' letters coming from his native place Were like old neighbours with their country face. And every opportunity that came Opened the sheet to gaze upon the name Of that loved village where he left his sheep For more contented peaceful folk to keep; And friendly faces absent many a year Would from such letters in his mind appear. And when his pockets, chafing through the case, Wore it quite out ere others took the place, Right loath to be of company bereft He kept the fragments while a bit was left.

Ploughman Singing

Here morning in the ploughman's songs is met Ere yet one footstep shows in all the sky, And twilight in the east, a doubt as yet, Shows not her sleeve of grey to know her bye. Woke early, I arose and thought that first In winter time of all the world was I. The old owls might have hallooed if they durst, But joy just then was up and whistled bye A merry tune which I had known full long, But could not to my memory wake it back, Until the ploughman changed it to the song. O happiness, how simple is thy track. —Tinged like the willow shoots, the east's young brow Glows red and finds thee singing at the plough.

Spring's Messengers

Where slanting banks are always with the sun The daisy is in blossom even now; And where warm patches by the hedges run The cottager when coming home from plough Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set. Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met Setting up little tents about the fields In sheltered spots.—Primroses when they get Behind the wood's old roots, where ivy shields Their crimpled, curdled leaves, will shine and hide. Cart ruts and horses' footings scarcely yield A slur for boys, just crizzled and that's all. Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side, And snow in scarce a feather's seen to fall.

Letter in Verse

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain For the mere joy of riding back again, When summer from the meadow carts the hay And school hours leave them half a day to play; So I with leisure on three sides a sheet Of foolscap dance with poesy's measured feet, Just to ride post upon the wings of time And kill a care, to friendship turned in rhyme. The muse's gallop hurries me in sport With much to read and little to divert, And I, amused, with less of wit than will, Run till I tire.—And so to cheat her still. Like children running races who shall be First in to touch the orchard wall or tree, The last half way behind, by distance vext, Turns short, determined to be first the next; So now the muse has run me hard and long— I'll leave at once her races and her song; And, turning round, laugh at the letter's close And beat her out by ending it in prose.

Snow Storm

What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps Incessant batter at the window pane, Making our comfort feel as sweet again; And in the morning, when the tempest drops, At every cottage door mountainous heaps Of snow lie drifted, that all entrance stops Untill the beesom and the shovel gain The path, and leave a wall on either side. The shepherd rambling valleys white and wide With new sensations his old memory fills, When hedges left at night, no more descried, Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills, And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.

The boy that goes to fodder with surprise Walks oer the gate he opened yesternight. The hedges all have vanished from his eyes; Een some tree tops the sheep could reach to bite. The novel scene emboldens new delight, And, though with cautious steps his sports begin, He bolder shuffles the huge hills of snow, Till down he drops and plunges to the chin, And struggles much and oft escape to win— Then turns and laughs but dare not further go; For deep the grass and bushes lie below, Where little birds that soon at eve went in With heads tucked in their wings now pine for day And little feel boys oer their heads can stray.

Firwood

The fir trees taper into twigs and wear The rich blue green of summer all the year, Softening the roughest tempest almost calm And offering shelter ever still and warm To the small path that towels underneath, Where loudest winds—almost as summer's breath— Scarce fan the weed that lingers green below When others out of doors are lost in frost and snow. And sweet the music trembles on the ear As the wind suthers through each tiny spear, Makeshifts for leaves; and yet, so rich they show, Winter is almost summer where they grow.

Grasshoppers

Grasshoppers go in many a thumming spring And now to stalks of tasseled sow-grass cling, That shakes and swees awhile, but still keeps straight; While arching oxeye doubles with his weight. Next on the cat-tail-grass with farther bound He springs, that bends until they touch the ground.

Field Path

The beams in blossom with their spots of jet Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met; The level meadow grass was in the swath; The hedge briar rose hung right across the path, White over with its flowers—the grass that lay Bleaching beneath the twittering heat to hay Smelt so deliciously, the puzzled bee Went wondering where the honey sweets could be; And passer-bye along the level rows Stoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.

Country Letter

Dear brother robin this comes from us all With our kind love and could Gip write and all Though but a dog he'd have his love to spare For still he knows and by your corner chair The moment he comes in he lyes him down and seems to fancy you are in the town. This leaves us well in health thank God for that For old acquaintance Sue has kept your hat Which mother brushes ere she lays it bye and every sunday goes upstairs to cry Jane still is yours till you come back agen and neer so much as dances with the men and ned the woodman every week comes in and asks about you kindly as our kin and he with this and goody Thompson sends Remembrances with those of all our friends Father with us sends love untill he hears and mother she has nothing but her tears Yet wishes you like us in health the same and longs to see a letter with your name So loving brother don't forget to write Old Gip lies on the hearth stone every night Mother can't bear to turn him out of doors and never noises now of dirty floors Father will laugh but lets her have her way and Gip for kindness get a double pay So Robin write and let us quickly see You don't forget old friends no more than we Nor let my mother have so much to blame To go three journeys ere your letter came.

From "January"

Supper removed, the mother sits, And tells her tales by starts and fits. Not willing to lose time or toil, She knits or sews, and talks the while Something, that may be warnings found To the young listeners gaping round— Of boys who in her early day Strolled to the meadow-lake to play, Where willows, oer the bank inclined Sheltered the water from the wind, And left it scarcely crizzled oer— When one sank in, to rise no more! And how, upon a market-night, When not a star bestowed its light, A farmer's shepherd, oer his glass, Forgot that he had woods to pass: And having sold his master's sheep, Was overta'en by darkness deep. How, coming with his startled horse, To where two roads a hollow cross; Where, lone guide when a stranger strays, A white post points four different ways, Beside the woodride's lonely gate A murdering robber lay in wait. The frightened horse, with broken rein, Stood at the stable-door again; But none came home to fill his rack, Or take the saddle from his back; The saddle—it was all he bore— The man was seen alive no more!— In her young days, beside the wood, The gibbet in its terror stood: Though now decayed, tis not forgot, But dreaded as a haunted spot.—

She from her memory oft repeats Witches' dread powers and fairy feats: How one has oft been known to prance In cowcribs, like a coach, to France, And ride on sheep-trays from the fold A race-horse speed to Burton-hold; To join the midnight mystery's rout, Where witches meet the yews about: And how, when met with unawares, They turn at once to cats or hares, And race along with hellish flight, Now here, now there, now out of sight!— And how the other tiny things Will leave their moonlight meadow-rings, And, unperceived, through key-holes creep, When all around have sunk to sleep, To feast on what the cotter leaves,— Mice are not reckoned greater thieves. They take away, as well as eat, And still the housewife's eye they cheat, In spite of all the folks that swarm In cottage small and larger farm; They through each key-hole pop and pop, Like wasps into a grocer's shop, With all the things that they can win From chance to put their plunder in;— As shells of walnuts, split in two By crows, who with the kernels flew; Or acorn-cups, by stock-doves plucked, Or egg-shells by a cuckoo sucked; With broad leaves of the sycamore They clothe their stolen dainties oer: And when in cellar they regale, Bring hazel-nuts to hold their ale; With bung-holes bored by squirrels well, To get the kernel from the shell; Or maggots a way out to win, When all is gone that grew within; And be the key-holes eer so high, Rush poles a ladder's help supply. Where soft the climbers fearless tread, On spindles made of spiders' thread. And foul, or fair, or dark the night, Their wild-fire lamps are burning bright: For which full many a daring crime Is acted in the summer-time;— When glow-worm found in lanes remote Is murdered for its shining coat, And put in flowers, that nature weaves With hollow shapes and silken leaves, Such as the Canterbury bell, Serving for lamp or lantern well; Or, following with unwearied watch The flight of one they cannot match, As silence sliveth upon sleep, Or thieves by dozing watch-dogs creep, They steal from Jack-a-Lantern's tails A light, whose guidance never fails To aid them in the darkest night And guide their plundering steps aright. Rattling away in printless tracks, Some, housed on beetles' glossy backs, Go whisking on—and others hie As fast as loaded moths can fly: Some urge, the morning cock to shun, The hardest gallop mice can run, In chariots, lolling at their ease, Made of whateer their fancies please;— Things that in childhood's memory dwell— Scooped crow-pot-stone, or cockle-shell, With wheels at hand of mallow seeds, Where childish sport was stringing beads; And thus equipped, they softly pass Like shadows on the summer-grass, And glide away in troops together Just as the Spring-wind drives a feather. As light as happy dreams they creep, Nor break the feeblest link of sleep: A midge, if in their road a-bed, Feels not the wheels run oer his head, But sleeps till sunrise calls him up, Unconscious of the passing troop,—

Thus dame the winter-night regales With wonder's never-ceasing tales; While in a corner, ill at ease, Or crushing tween their father's knees, The children—silent all the while— And een repressed the laugh or smile— Quake with the ague chills of fear, And tremble though they love to hear; Starting, while they the tales recall, At their own shadows on the wall: Till the old clock, that strikes unseen Behind the picture-pasted screen Where Eve and Adam still agree To rob Life's fatal apple-tree, Counts over bed-time's hour of rest, And bids each be sleep's fearful guest. She then her half-told tales will leave To finish on to-morrow's eve;— The children steal away to bed, And up the ladder softly tread; Scarce daring—from their fearful joys— To look behind or make a noise; Nor speak a word! but still as sleep They secret to their pillows creep, And whisper oer, in terror's way, The prayers they dare no louder say; Then hide their heads beneath the clothes, And try in vain to seek repose: While yet, to fancy's sleepless eye, Witches on sheep-trays gallop by, And fairies, like a rising spark, Swarm twittering round them in the dark; Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares, And drops upon them unawares.

November

The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon; And, if the sun looks through, tis with a face Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon, When done the journey of her nightly race, Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place. For days the shepherds in the fields may be, Nor mark a patch of sky—blindfold they trace, The plains, that seem without a bush or tree, Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose, Crouching and sleeping neath its grassy lair, And scarcely startles, though the shepherd goes Close by its home, and dogs are barking there; The wild colt only turns around to stare At passer by, then knaps his hide again; And moody crows beside the road forbear To fly, though pelted by the passing swain; Thus day seems turned to night, and tries to wake in vain.

The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon, And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light; The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon, And small birds chirp and startle with affright; Much doth it scare the superstitious wight, Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay; While cow-boys think the day a dream of night, And oft grow fearful on their lonely way, Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.

Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings Its murky prison round—then winds wake loud; With sudden stir the startled forest sings Winter's returning song-cloud races cloud. And the horizon throws away its shroud, Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye; Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd, And oer the sameness of the purple sky Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.

At length it comes among the forest oaks, With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high; The scared, hoarse raven on its cradle croaks, And stockdove-flocks in hurried terrors fly, While the blue hawk hangs oer them in the sky.— The hedger hastens from the storm begun, To seek a shelter that may keep him dry; And foresters low bent, the wind to shun, Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher's muttering gun.

The ploughman hears its humming rage begin, And hies for shelter from his naked toil; Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin, He bends and scampers oer the elting soil, While clouds above him in wild fury boil, And winds drive heavily the beating rain; He turns his back to catch his breath awhile, Then ekes his speed and faces it again, To seek the shepherd's hut beside the rushy plain.

The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheat The melancholy crow—in hurry weaves, Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat, Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves, Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves. There he doth dithering sit, and entertain His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves; Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en, And wishing in his heart twas summer-time again.

Thus wears the month along, in checkered moods, Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms; One hour dies silent oer the sleepy woods, The next wakes loud with unexpected storms; A dreary nakedness the field deforms— Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight, Lives in the village still about the farms, Where toil's rude uproar hums from morn till night Noises, in which the ears of industry delight.

At length the stir of rural labour's still, And industry her care awhile foregoes; When winter comes in earnest to fulfil His yearly task, at bleak November's close, And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows; When frost locks up the stream in chill delay And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes, For little birds—then toil hath time for play, And nought but threshers' flails awake the dreary day.

The Fens

Wandering by the river's edge, I love to rustle through the sedge And through the woods of reed to tear Almost as high as bushes are. Yet, turning quick with shudder chill, As danger ever does from ill, Fear's moment ague quakes the blood, While plop the snake coils in the flood And, hissing with a forked tongue, Across the river winds along. In coat of orange, green, and blue Now on a willow branch I view, Grey waving to the sunny gleam, Kingfishers watch the ripple stream For little fish that nimble bye And in the gravel shallows lie.

Eddies run before the boats, Gurgling where the fisher floats, Who takes advantage of the gale And hoists his handkerchief for sail On osier twigs that form a mast— While idly lies, nor wanted more, The spirit that pushed him on before.

There's not a hill in all the view, Save that a forked cloud or two Upon the verge of distance lies And into mountains cheats the eyes. And as to trees the willows wear Lopped heads as high as bushes are; Some taller things the distance shrouds That may be trees or stacks or clouds Or may be nothing; still they wear A semblance where there's nought to spare.

Among the tawny tasselled reed The ducks and ducklings float and feed. With head oft dabbing in the flood They fish all day the weedy mud, And tumbler-like are bobbing there, Heels topsy turvy in the air.

The geese in troops come droving up, Nibble the weeds, and take a sup; And, closely puzzled to agree, Chatter like gossips over tea. The gander with his scarlet nose When strife's at height will interpose; And, stretching neck to that and this, With now a mutter, now a hiss, A nibble at the feathers too, A sort of "pray be quiet do," And turning as the matter mends, He stills them into mutual friends; Then in a sort of triumph sings And throws the water oer his wings.

Ah, could I see a spinney nigh, A puddock riding in the sky Above the oaks with easy sail On stilly wings and forked tail, Or meet a heath of furze in flower, I might enjoy a quiet hour, Sit down at rest, and walk at ease, And find a many things to please. But here my fancy's moods admire The naked levels till they tire, Nor een a molehill cushion meet To rest on when I want a seat.

Here's little save the river scene And grounds of oats in rustling green And crowded growth of wheat and beans, That with the hope of plenty leans And cheers the farmer's gazing brow, Who lives and triumphs in the plough— One sometimes meets a pleasant sward Of swarthy grass; and quickly marred The plough soon turns it into brown, And, when again one rambles down The path, small hillocks burning lie And smoke beneath a burning sky. Green paddocks have but little charms With gain the merchandise of farms; And, muse and marvel where we may, Gain mars the landscape every day— The meadow grass turned up and copt, The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt, The hearth with fuel to supply For rest to smoke and chatter bye; Giving the joy of home delights, The warmest mirth on coldest nights. And so for gain, that joy's repay, Change cheats the landscape every day, Nor trees nor bush about it grows That from the hatchet can repose, And the horizon stooping smiles Oer treeless fens of many miles. Spring comes and goes and comes again And all is nakedness and fen.

Spear Thistle

Where the broad sheepwalk bare and brown [Yields] scant grass pining after showers, And winds go fanning up and down The little strawy bents and nodding flowers, There the huge thistle, spurred with many thorns, The suncrackt upland's russet swells adorns.

Not undevoid of beauty there they come, Armed warriors, waiting neither suns nor showers, Guarding the little clover plots to bloom While sheep nor oxen dare not crop their flowers Unsheathing their own knobs of tawny flowers When summer cometh in her hottest hours.

The pewit, swopping up and down And screaming round the passer bye, Or running oer the herbage brown With copple crown uplifted high, Loves in its clumps to make a home Where danger seldom cares to come.

The yellowhammer, often prest For spot to build and be unseen, Will in its shelter trust her nest When fields and meadows glow with green; And larks, though paths go closely bye, Will in its shade securely lie.

The partridge too, that scarce can trust The open downs to be at rest, Will in its clumps lie down, and dust And prune its horseshoe-circled breast, And oft in shining fields of green Will lay and raise its brood unseen.

The sheep when hunger presses sore May nip the clover round its nest; But soon the thistle wounding sore Relieves it from each brushing guest, That leaves a bit of wool behind, The yellowhammer loves to find.

The horse will set his foot and bite Close to the ground lark's guarded nest And snort to meet the prickly sight; He fans the feathers of her breast— Yet thistles prick so deep that he Turns back and leaves her dwelling free.

Its prickly knobs the dews of morn Doth bead with dressing rich to see, When threads doth hang from thorn to thorn Like the small spinner's tapestry; And from the flowers a sultry smell Comes that agrees with summer well.

The bee will make its bloom a bed, The humble bee in tawny brown; And one in jacket fringed with red Will rest upon its velvet down When overtaken in the rain, And wait till sunshine comes again.

And there are times when travel goes Along the sheep tracks' beaten ways, Then pleasure many a praise bestows Upon its blossoms' pointed rays, When other things are parched beside And hot day leaves it in its pride.

Idle Fame

I would not wish the burning blaze Of fame around a restless world, The thunder and the storm of praise In crowded tumults heard and hurled. I would not be a flower to stand The stare of every passer-bye; But in some nook of fairyland, Seen in the praise of beauty's eye.

Approaching Night

O take this world away from me; Its strife I cannot bear to see, Its very praises hurt me more Than een its coldness did before, Its hollow ways torment me now And start a cold sweat on my brow, Its noise I cannot bear to hear, Its joy is trouble to my ear, Its ways I cannot bear to see, Its crowds are solitudes to me. O, how I long to be agen That poor and independent man, With labour's lot from morn to night And books to read at candle light; That followed labour in the field From light to dark when toil could yield Real happiness with little gain, Rich thoughtless health unknown to pain: Though, leaning on my spade to rest, I've thought how richer folks were blest And knew not quiet was the best.

Go with your tauntings, go; Neer think to hurt me so; I'll scoff at your disdain. Cold though the winter blow, When hills are free from snow It will be spring again.

So go, and fare thee well, Nor think ye'll have to tell Of wounded hearts from me, Locked up in your hearts cell. Mine still at home doth dwell In its first liberty.

Bees sip not at one flower, Spring comes not with one shower, Nor shines the sun alone Upon one favoured hour, But with unstinted power Makes every day his own.

And for my freedom's sake With such I'll pattern take, And rove and revel on. Your gall shall never make Me honied paths forsake; So prythee get thee gone.

And when my toil is blest And I find a maid possest Of truth that's not in thee, Like bird that finds its nest I'll stop and take my rest; And love as she loves me.

Farewell and Defiance to Love

Love and thy vain employs, away From this too oft deluded breast! No longer will I court thy stay, To be my bosom's teazing guest. Thou treacherous medicine, reckoned pure, Thou quackery of the harassed heart, That kills what it pretends to cure, Life's mountebank thou art.

With nostrums vain of boasted powers, That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave; An asp hid in a group of flowers, That bites and stings when few perceive; Thou mock-truce to the troubled mind, Leading it more in sorrow's way, Freedom, that leaves us more confined, I bid thee hence away.

Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyond The resolution reason gave? Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond, That kept me once thy quiet slave, And made thy snare a spider's thread, Which een my breath can break in twain; Nor will I be, like Sampson, led To trust thy wiles again.

I took thee as my staff to guide Me on the road I did pursue, And when my weakness most relied Upon its strength it broke in two. I took thee as my friendly host That counsel might in dangers show, But when I needed thee the most I found thou wert my foe.

Tempt me no more with rosy cheeks, Nor daze my reason with bright eyes; I'm wearied with thy painted freaks, And sicken at such vanities: Be roses fine as eer they will, They, with the meanest, fade and die, And eyes, though thronged with darts to kill, Share like mortality. Feed the young bard, that madly sips His nectar-draughts from folly's flowers, Bright eyes, fair cheeks, and ruby lips, Till muses melt to honey showers; Lure him to thrum thy empty lays, While flattery listens to the chimes, Till words themselves grow sick with praise And stop for want of rhymes.

Let such be still thy paramours, And chaunt love's old and idle tune, Robbing the spring of all its flowers, And heaven of all her stars and moon, To gild with dazzling similes Blind folly's vain and empty lay: I'm sobered from such phantasies, So get thee hence away.

Nor bid me sigh for mine own cost, Nor count its loss, for mine annoy, Nor say my stubbornness hath lost A paradise of dainty joy: I'll not believe thee, till I know That sober reason turns an ape, And acts the harlequin, to show That cares in every shape,

Heart-achings, sighs, and grief-wrung tears, Shame-blushes at betrayed distress, Dissembled smiles, and jealous fears, Are nought but real happiness: Then will I mourn what now I brave, And suffer Celia's quirks to be (Like a poor fate-bewilder'd slave,) The rulers of my destiny.

I'll weep and sigh wheneer she wills To frown, and when she deigns to smile It shall be cure for all my ills, And, foolish still, I'll laugh the while; But till that comes, I'll bless the rules Experience taught, and deem it wise To hold thee as the game of fools, And all thy tricks despise.

To John Milton

"From his honoured friend, William Davenant"

Poet of mighty power, I fain Would court the muse that honoured thee, And, like Elisha's spirit, gain A part of thy intensity; And share the mantle which she flung Around thee, when thy lyre was strung.

Though faction's scorn at first did shun With coldness thy inspired song, Though clouds of malice passed thy sun, They could not hide it long; Its brightness soon exhaled away Dank night, and gained eternal day.

The critics' wrath did darkly frown Upon thy muse's mighty lay; But blasts that break the blossom down Do only stir the bay; And thine shall flourish, green and long, With the eternity of song.

Thy genius saw, in quiet mood, Gilt fashion's follies pass thee by, And, like the monarch of the wood, Towered oer it to the sky, Where thou couldst sing of other spheres, And feel the fame of future years.

Though bitter sneers and stinging scorns Did throng the muse's dangerous way, Thy powers were past such little thorns, They gave thee no dismay; The scoffer's insult passed thee by, Thou smild'st and mad'st him no reply.

Envy will gnaw its heart away To see thy genius gather root; And as its flowers their sweets display Scorn's malice shall be mute; Hornets that summer warmed to fly, Shall at the death of summer die.

Though friendly praise hath but its hour. And little praise with thee hath been; The bay may lose its summer flower, But still its leaves are green; And thine, whose buds are on the shoot, Shall only fade to change to fruit.

Fame lives not in the breath of words, In public praises' hue and cry; The music of these summer birds Is silent in a winter sky, When thine shall live and flourish on, Oer wrecks where crowds of fames are gone.

The ivy shuns the city wall, When busy clamorous crowds intrude, And climbs the desolated hall In silent solitude; The time-worn arch, the fallen dome, Are roots for its eternal home.

The bard his glory neer receives Where summer's common flowers are seen, But winter finds it when she leaves The laurel only green; And time from that eternal tree, Shall weave a wreath to honour thee;

A sunny wreath for poets meet, From Helicon's immortal soil, Where sacred Time with pilgrim feet Walks forth to worship, not to spoil, A wreath which Fame creates and bears, And deathless genius only heirs.

Nought but thy ashes shall expire; Thy genius, at thy obsequies, Shall kindle up its living fire And light the muse's skies; Ay, it shall rise, and shine, and be A sun in song's posterity.

The Vanities of Life

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.—Solomon

What are life's joys and gains? What pleasures crowd its ways, That man should take such pains To seek them all his days? Sift this untoward strife On which thy mind is bent: See if this chaff of life Is worth the trouble spent.

Is pride thy heart's desire? Is power thy climbing aim? Is love thy folly's fire? Is wealth thy restless game? Pride, power, love, wealth, and all Time's touchstone shall destroy, And, like base coin, prove all Vain substitutes for joy.

Dost think that pride exalts Thyself in other's eyes, And hides thy folly's faults, Which reason will despise? Dost strut, and turn, and stride, Like walking weathercocks? The shadow by thy side Becomes thy ape, and mocks.

Dost think that power's disguise Can make thee mighty seem? It may in folly's eyes, But not in worth's esteem, When all that thou canst ask, And all that she can give, Is but a paltry mask Which tyrants wear and live.

Go, let thy fancies range And ramble where they may; View power in every change, And what is the display? —The country magistrate, The meanest shade in power, To rulers of the state, The meteors of an hour.

View all, and mark the end Of every proud extreme, Where flattery turns a friend, And counterfeits esteem; Where worth is aped in show, That doth her name purloin, Like toys of golden glow That's sold for copper coin.

Ambition's haughty nod With fancies may deceive, Nay, tell thee thou'rt a god, And wilt thou such believe? Go, bid the seas be dry; Go, hold earth like a ball, Or throw thy fancies by, For God can do it all.

Dost thou possess the dower Of laws to spare or kill? Call it not heavenly power When but a tyrant's will. Know what a God will do, And know thyself a fool, Nor, tyrant-like, pursue Where He alone should rule.

O put away thy pride, Or be ashamed of power That cannot turn aside The breeze that waves a flower. Or bid the clouds be still: Though shadows, they can brave Thy poor power mocking will: Then make not man a slave.

Dost think, when wealth is won, Thy heart has its desire? Hold ice up to the sun, And wax before the fire; Nor triumph oer the reign Which they so soon resign; In this world's ways they gain, Insurance safe as thine.

Dost think life's peace secure In house and in land? Go, read the fairy lure To twist a cord in sand; Lodge stones upon the sky, Hold water in a sieve, Nor give such tales the lie, And still thine own believe.

Whoso with riches deals, And thinks peace bought and sold, Will find them slipping eels, That slide the firmest hold: Though sweet as sleep with health Thy lulling luck may be, Pride may oerstride thy wealth, And check prosperity.

Dost think that beauty's power Life sweetest pleasure gives? Go, pluck the summer flower, And see how long it lives: Behold, the rays glide on Along the summer plain Ere thou canst say "they're gone," And measure beauty's reign.

Look on the brightest eye, Nor teach it to be proud; View but the clearest sky, And thou shalt find a cloud; Nor call each face ye meet An angel's, cause it's fair, But look beneath your feet, And think of what they are.

Who thinks that love doth live In beauty's tempting show, Shall find his hopes ungive, And melt in reason's thaw. Who thinks that pleasure lies In every fairy bower, Shall oft, to his surprise, Find poison in the flower.

Dost lawless passions grasp? Judge not thou deal'st in joy: Its flowers but hide the asp, Thy revels to destroy. Who trusts an harlot's smile, And by her wiles are led, Plays, with a sword the while Hung dropping oer his head.

Dost doubt my warning song? Then doubt the sun gives light, Doubt truth to teach thee wrong, And wrong alone as right; And live as lives the knave, Intrigue's deceiving guest; Be tyrant, or be slave, As suits thy ends the best.

Or pause amid thy toils For visions won and lost, And count the fancied spoils, If eer they quit the cost: And if they still possess Thy mind, as worthy things, Plat straws with bedlam Bess, And call them diamond rings.

Thy folly's past advice, Thy heart's already won, Thy fall's above all price, So go, and be undone; For all who thus prefer The seeming great for small Shall make wine vinegar, And sweetest honey gall.

Wouldst heed the truths I sing, To profit wherewithal, Clip folly's wanton wing, And keep her within call. I've little else to give, What thou canst easy try; The lesson how to live Is but to learn to die.

Death

Why should man's high aspiring mind Burn in him with so proud a breath, When all his haughty views can find In this world yields to death? The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise, The rich, the poor, the great, and small, Are each but worm's anatomies To strew his quiet hall.

Power may make many earthly gods, Where gold and bribery's guilt prevails, But death's unwelcome, honest odds Kick o'er the unequal scales. The flattered great may clamours raise Of power, and their own weakness hide, But death shall find unlooked-for ways To end the farce of pride,

An arrow hurtled eer so high, From een a giant's sinewy strength, In Time's untraced eternity Goes but a pigmy length; Nay, whirring from the tortured string, With all its pomp of hurried flight, Tis by the skylark's little wing Outmeasured in its height.

Just so man's boasted strength and power Shall fade before death's lightest stroke, Laid lower than the meanest flower, Whose pride oer-topt the oak; And he who, like a blighting blast, Dispeopled worlds with war's alarms Shall be himself destroyed at last By poor despised worms.

Tyrants in vain their powers secure, And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown, For unawed death at last is sure To sap the babels down. A stone thrown upward to the sky Will quickly meet the ground agen; So men-gods of earth's vanity Shall drop at last to men;

And Power and Pomp their all resign, Blood-purchased thrones and banquet halls. Fate waits to sack Ambition's shrine As bare as prison walls, Where the poor suffering wretch bows down To laws a lawless power hath passed; And pride, and power, and king, and clown Shall be Death's slaves at last.

Time, the prime minister of Death! There's nought can bribe his honest will. He stops the richest tyrant's breath And lays his mischief still. Each wicked scheme for power all stops, With grandeurs false and mock display, As eve's shades from high mountain tops Fade with the rest away.

Death levels all things in his march; Nought can resist his mighty strength; The palace proud, triumphal arch, Shall mete its shadow's length. The rich, the poor, one common bed Shall find in the unhonoured grave, Where weeds shall crown alike the head Of tyrant and of slave.

The Fallen Elm

Old elm, that murmured in our chimney top The sweetest anthem autumn ever made And into mellow whispering calms would drop When showers fell on thy many coloured shade And when dark tempests mimic thunder made— While darkness came as it would strangle light With the black tempest of a winter night That rocked thee like a cradle in thy root— How did I love to hear the winds upbraid Thy strength without—while all within was mute. It seasoned comfort to our hearts' desire, We felt thy kind protection like a friend And edged our chairs up closer to the fire, Enjoying comfort that was never penned. Old favourite tree, thou'st seen time's changes lower, Though change till now did never injure thee; For time beheld thee as her sacred dower And nature claimed thee her domestic tree. Storms came and shook thee many a weary hour, Yet stedfast to thy home thy roots have been; Summers of thirst parched round thy homely bower Till earth grew iron—still thy leaves were green. The children sought thee in thy summer shade And made their playhouse rings of stick and stone; The mavis sang and felt himself alone While in thy leaves his early nest was made. And I did feel his happiness mine own, Nought heeding that our friendship was betrayed, Friend not inanimate—though stocks and stones There are, and many formed of flesh and bones. Thou owned a language by which hearts are stirred Deeper than by a feeling clothed in word, And speakest now what's known of every tongue, Language of pity and the force of wrong. What cant assumes, what hypocrites will dare, Speaks home to truth and shows it what they are. I see a picture which thy fate displays And learn a lesson from thy destiny; Self-interest saw thee stand in freedom's ways— So thy old shadow must a tyrant be. Tnou'st heard the knave, abusing those in power, Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free; Thou'st sheltered hypocrites in many a shower, That when in power would never shelter thee. Thou'st heard the knave supply his canting powers With wrong's illusions when he wanted friends; That bawled for shelter when he lived in showers And when clouds vanished made thy shade amends— With axe at root he felled thee to the ground And barked of freedom—O I hate the sound Time hears its visions speak,—and age sublime Hath made thee a disciple unto time. —It grows the cant term of enslaving tools To wrong another by the name of right; Thus came enclosure—ruin was its guide, But freedom's cottage soon was thrust aside And workhouse prisons raised upon the site. Een nature's dwellings far away from men, The common heath, became the spoiler's prey; The rabbit had not where to make his den And labour's only cow was drove away. No matter—wrong was right and right was wrong, And freedom's bawl was sanction to the song. —Such was thy ruin, music-making elm; The right of freedom was to injure thine: As thou wert served, so would they overwhelm In freedom's name the little that is mine. And there are knaves that brawl for better laws And cant of tyranny in stronger power Who glut their vile unsatiated maws And freedom's birthright from the weak devour.

Sport in the Meadows

Maytime is to the meadows coming in, And cowslip peeps have gotten eer so big, And water blobs and all their golden kin Crowd round the shallows by the striding brig. Daisies and buttercups and ladysmocks Are all abouten shining here and there, Nodding about their gold and yellow locks Like morts of folken flocking at a fair. The sheep and cows are crowding for a share And snatch the blossoms in such eager haste That basket-bearing children running there Do think within their hearts they'll get them all And hoot and drive them from their graceless waste As though there wa'n't a cowslip peep to spare. —For they want some for tea and some for wine And some to maken up a cuckaball To throw across the garland's silken line That reaches oer the street from wall to wall. —Good gracious me, how merrily they fare: One sees a fairer cowslip than the rest, And off they shout—the foremost bidding fair To get the prize—and earnest half and jest The next one pops her down—and from her hand Her basket falls and out her cowslips all Tumble and litter there—the merry band In laughing friendship round about her fall To helpen gather up the littered flowers That she no loss may mourn. And now the wind In frolic mood among the merry hours Wakens with sudden start and tosses off Some untied bonnet on its dancing wings; Away they follow with a scream and laugh, And aye the youngest ever lags behind, Till on the deep lake's very bank it hings. They shout and catch it and then off they start And chase for cowslips merry as before, And each one seems so anxious at the heart As they would even get them all and more. One climbs a molehill for a bunch of may, One stands on tiptoe for a linnet's nest And pricks her hand and throws her flowers away And runs for plantin leaves to have it drest. So do they run abouten all the day And teaze the grass-hid larks from getting rest. —Scarce give they time in their unruly haste To tie a shoestring that the grass unties— And thus they run the meadows' bloom to waste, Till even comes and dulls their phantasies, When one finds losses out to stifle smiles Of silken bonnet-strings—and utters sigh Oer garments renten clambering over stiles. Yet in the morning fresh afield they hie, Bidding the last day's troubles all goodbye; When red pied cow again their coming hears, And ere they clap the gate she tosses up Her head and hastens from the sport she fears: The old yoe calls her lamb nor cares to stoop To crop a cowslip in their company. Thus merrily the little noisy troop Along the grass as rude marauders hie, For ever noisy and for ever gay While keeping in the meadows holiday.

Death

The winds and waters are in his command, Held as a courser in the rider's hand. He lets them loose, they triumph at his will: He checks their course and all is calm and still. Life's hopes waste all to nothingness away As showers at night wash out the steps of day.

* * * * *

The tyrant, in his lawless power deterred, Bows before death, tame as a broken sword. One dyeth in his strength and, torn from ease, Groans in death pangs like tempests in the trees. Another from the bitterness of clay Falls calm as storms drop on an autumn day, With noiseless speed as swift as summer light Death slays and keeps her weapons out of sight.

The tyrants that do act the God in clay And for earth's glories throw the heavens away, Whose breath in power did like to thunder sear, When anger hurried on the heels of fear, Whose rage planned hosts of murders at a breath— Here in sound silence sheath their rage in death.

Their feet, that crushed down freedom to its grave And felt the very earth they trod a slave, How quiet here they lie in death's cold arms Without the power to crush the feeble worms Who spite of all the dreadful fears they made Creep there to conquer and are not afraid.

Autumn

Syren of sullen moods and fading hues, Yet haply not incapable of joy, Sweet Autumn! I thee hail With welcome all unfeigned;

And oft as morning from her lattice peeps To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee To drink the dewy breath Of fields left fragrant then,

In solitudes, where no frequented paths But what thy own foot makes betray thy home, Stealing obtrusive there To meditate thy end:

By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks, With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge, Which woo the winds to play, And with them dance for joy;

And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods, Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves, On which, as wont, the fly Oft battens in the sun;

Where leans the mossy willow half way oer, On which the shepherd crawls astride to throw His angle, clear of weeds That crowd the water's brim;

Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward, Where step by step the patient lonely boy Hath cut rude flights of stairs To climb their steepy sides;

Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise, The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed, And struggles through the weeds With faint and sullen brawl.

These haunts I long have favoured, more as now With thee thus wandering, moralizing on, Stealing glad thoughts from grief, And happy, though I sigh.

Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair, And raiment shadowy of each wind's embrace, Fain would I win thine harp To one accordant theme;

Now not inaptly craved, communing thus, Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak, While pillowed on the grass, We fondly ruminate

Oer the disordered scenes of woods and fields, Ploughed lands, thin travelled with half-hungry sheep, Pastures tracked deep with cows, Where small birds seek for seed:

Marking the cow-boy that so merry trills His frequent, unpremeditated song, Wooing the winds to pause, Till echo brawls again;

As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon, He roves, half indolent and self-employed, To rob the little birds Of hips and pendent haws,

And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils, And rambling bramble-berries, pulp and sweet, Arching their prickly trails Half oer the narrow lane:

Noting the hedger front with stubborn face The dank blea wind, that whistles thinly by His leathern garb, thorn proof, And cheek red hot with toil.

While oer the pleachy lands of mellow brown, The mower's stubbling scythe clogs to his foot The ever eking whisp, With sharp and sudden jerk,

Till into formal rows the russet shocks Crowd the blank field to thatch time-weathered barns, And hovels rude repair, Stript by disturbing winds.

See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hare Scampers circuitous, with startled ears Prickt up, then squat, as bye She brushes to the woods,

Where reeded grass, breast-high and undisturbed, Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing winds Soften her rigid fears, And lull to calm repose.

Wild sorceress! me thy restless mood delights, More than the stir of summer's crowded scenes, Where, jostled in the din, Joy palled my ear with song;

Heart-sickening for the silence that is thine, Not broken inharmoniously, as now That lone and vagrant bee Booms faint with wearp chime.

Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woods In tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath, Some sickly cankered leaf Let go its hold, and die.

And now the bickering storm, with sudden start, In flirting fits of anger carps aloud, Thee urging to thine end, Sore wept by troubled skies.

And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delight To show me visions of most gorgeous dyes, Haply forgetting now They but prepare thy shroud;

Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades, Improvident of waste, till every bough Burns with thy mellow touch Disorderly divine.

Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream Droop faintly, and so sicken for thine end, As sad the winds sink low In dirges for their queen;

While in the moment of their weary pause, To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark Starts from his shielding clod, Snatching sweet scraps of song.

Thy life is waning now, and silence tries To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds. As stooping low she bends, Forming with leaves thy grave;

To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods, Till parch-lipped summer pines in drought away, Then from thine ivied trance Awake to glories new.

Summer Images

Now swarthy summer, by rude health embrowned, Precedence takes of rosy fingered spring; And laughing joy, with wild flowers pranked and crowned, A wild and giddy thing, And health robust, from every care unbound, Come on the zephyr's wing, And cheer the toiling clown.

Happy as holiday-enjoying face, Loud tongued, and "merry as a marriage bell," Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place; And where the troubled dwell, Thy witching smiles wean them of half their cares; And from thy sunny spell, They greet joy unawares.

Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude, And mantle laced with gems of garish light, Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude, And in the world's despite, Share the rude mirth that thy own heart beguiles: If haply so I might Win pleasure from thy smiles,

Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers, In nightly revels or in city streets; But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears, That one at leisure meets In the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn, Or fields, where bee-fly greets The ears with mellow horn.

The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe, Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks; There bees go courting every flower that's ripe, On baulks and sunny banks; And droning dragon-fly, on rude bassoon, Attempts to give God thanks In no discordant tune.

There speckled thrush, by self-delight embued, There sings unto himself for joy's amends, And drinks the honey dew of solitude. There happiness attends With inbred joy until the heart oerflow, Of which the world's rude friends, Nought heeding, nothing know.

There the gay river, laughing as it goes, Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides, And to the calm of heart, in calmness shows What pleasure there abides, To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free: Spots solitude provides To muse, and happy be.

There ruminating neath some pleasant bush, On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease, Where I can pillow on the yielding rush; And, acting as I please, Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie, Mark the wind-shaken trees, And cloud-betravelled sky.

And think me how some barter joy for care, And waste life's summer-health in riot rude, Of nature, nor of nature's sweets aware; Where passions vain and rude By calm reflection, softened are and still; And the heart's better mood Feels sick of doing ill.

There I can live, and at my leisure seek Joys far from cold restraints—not fearing pride— Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek Rude health, so long denied. Here poor integrity can sit at ease, And list self-satisfied The song of honey-bees;

And green lane traverse heedless where it goes Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies Rude battered finger post, that stooping shows Where the snug mystery lies; And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown, Clears up the short surprise, And shows a peeping town.

I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn Of beauty, feeding on joy's luscious hours; The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn, Agape for honey showers; And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew Of morning's early hours, Like gold yminted new;

And mark by rustic bridge, oer shallow stream, Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled, Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream; Who now, in gestures wild, Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall, Feeling self-gratified, Nor fearing human thrall:

Then thread the sunny valley laced with streams, Or forests rude, and the oershadowed brims Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams, And streaks his listless limbs; Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long, Where joy's wild impulse swims In one continued song.

I love at early morn, from new mown swath, To see the startled frog his route pursue; To mark while, leaping oer the dripping path, His bright sides scatter dew, The early lark that, from its bustle flies, To hail his matin new; And watch him to the skies:

To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent, The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn, With earnest heed, and tremulous intent, Frail brother of the morn, That from the tiny bents and misted leaves Withdraws his timid horn, And fearful vision weaves:

Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top, Wont to be first unsealing morning's eye, Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop Of honey on his thigh; To see him seek morn's airy couch to sing, Until the golden sky Bepaint his russet wing:

And sawning boy by tanning corn espy, With clapping noise to startle birds away, And hear him bawl to every passer by To know the hour of day; And see the uncradled breeze, refreshed and strong, With waking blossoms play, And breathe eolian song.

I love the south-west wind, or low or loud, And not the less when sudden drops of rain Moisten my pallid cheek from ebon cloud, Threatening soft showers again, That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds, Summer's sweet breath unchain, And wake harmonious sounds.

Rich music breathes in summer's every sound; And in her harmony of varied greens, Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around Much beauty intervenes, Filling with harmony the ear and eye; While oer the mingling scenes Far spreads the laughing sky.

And wind-enamoured aspin—mark the leaves Turn up their silver lining to the sun, And list! the brustling noise, that oft deceives, And makes the sheep-boy run; The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers, He thinks the rain begun, And hastes to sheltering bowers.

But now the evening curdles dank and grey, Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed; And moping owls, to close the lids of day, On drowsy wing proceed; While chickering crickets, tremulous and long, Light's farewell inly heed, And give it parting song.

The pranking bat its nighty circlet makes; The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew Oer meadows dew-besprent; and beetle wakes Enquiries ever new, Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain, As wanting to pursue His homeward path again.

Hark to the melody of distant bells That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds By fitful starts, then musically swells Oer the dun stilly grounds; While on the meadow bridge the pausing boy Listens the mellow sounds, And hums in vacant joy.

Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round His evening faggot, and with every stride His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound. Till silly sheep beside His path start tremulous, and once again Look back dissatisfied, Then scour the dewy plain.

How sweet the soothing calm that smoothly stills Oer the heart's every sense its opiate dews, In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills! That softens and subdues, With gentle quiet's bland and sober train, Which dreamy eve renews In many a mellow strain.

I love to walk the fields, they are to me A legacy no evil can destroy; They, like a spell, set every rapture free That cheered me when a boy. Play—pastime—all time's blotting pen concealed, Comes like a new-born joy, To greet me in the field.

For nature's objects ever harmonize With emulous taste, that vulgar deed annoys; It loves in quiet moods to sympathize, And meet vibrating joys Oer nature's pleasant things; nor will it deem Pastime the muse employs A vain obtrusive theme.

A World for Love

Oh, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care; Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair; Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear, That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near.

And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe, How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go; Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a grassy blade Had eer been bent by Trouble's feet, and Love thy pillow made.

For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime, And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty's happy clime; And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood, And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good.

And there to make a cot unknown to any care and pain, And there to shut the door alone on singing wind and rain— Far, far away from all the world, more rude than rain or wind, Oh, who could wish a sweeter home, or better place to find?

Than thus to love and live with thee, thou beautiful delight! Than thus to live and love with thee the summer day and night! The Earth itself, where thou hadst rest, would surely smile to see Herself grow Eden once again, possest of Love and thee.

Love

Love, though it is not chill and cold, But burning like eternal fire, Is yet not of approaches bold, Which gay dramatic tastes admire. Oh timid love, more fond than free, In daring song is ill pourtrayed, Where, as in war, the devotee By valour wins each captive maid;—

Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee, As they could tell each other's mind; Where ruby lips are kissed as free, As flowers are by the summer wind. No! gentle love, that timid dream, With hopes and fears at foil and play, Works like a skiff against the stream, And thinking most finds least to say.

It lives in blushes and in sighs, In hopes for which no words are found; Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes, The tongue is left without a sound. The pert and forward things that dare Their talk in every maiden's ear, Feel no more than their shadows there— Mere things of form, with nought of fear.

True passion, that so burns to plead, Is timid as the dove's disguise; Tis for the murder-aiming gleed To dart at every thing that flies. True love, it is no daring bird, But like the little timid wren, That in the new-leaved thorns of spring Shrinks farther from the sight of men.

The idol of his musing mind, The worship of his lonely hour, Love woos her in the summer wind, And tells her name to every flower; But in her sight, no open word Escapes, his fondness to declare; The sighs by beauty's magic stirred Are all that speak his passion there.

Nature's Hymn to the Deity

All nature owns with one accord The great and universal Lord: The sun proclaims him through the day, The moon when daylight drops away, The very darkness smiles to wear The stars that show us God is there, On moonlight seas soft gleams the sky And "God is with us" waves reply.

Winds breathe from God's abode "we come," Storms louder own God is their home, And thunder yet with louder call, Sounds "God is mightiest over all"; Till earth right loath the proof to miss Echoes triumphantly "He is," And air and ocean makes reply, God reigns on earth, in air and sky.

All nature owns with one accord The great and universal Lord: Insect and bird and tree and flower— The witnesses of every hour— Are pregnant with his prophesy And "God is with us" all reply. The first link in the mighty plan Is still—and all upbraideth man.

Decay

O Poesy is on the wane, For Fancy's visions all unfitting; I hardly know her face again, Nature herself seems on the flitting. The fields grow old and common things, The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowing; And spots, where still a beauty clings, Are sighing "going! all a-going!" O Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again.

The bank with brambles overspread, And little molehills round about it, Was more to me than laurel shades, With paths of gravel finely clouted; And streaking here and streaking there, Through shaven grass and many a border, With rutty lanes had no compare, And heaths were in a richer order. But Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again.

I sat beside the pasture stream, When Beauty's self was sitting by, The fields did more than Eden seem Nor could I tell the reason why. I often drank when not adry To pledge her health in draughts divine; Smiles made it nectar from the sky, Love turned een water into wine. O Poesy is on the wane, I cannot find her face again.

The sun those mornings used to find, Its clouds were other-country mountains, And heaven looked downward on the mind, Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains. Those heavens are gone, the mountains grey Turned mist—the sun, a homeless ranger, Pursues alone his naked way, Unnoticed like a very stranger. O Poesy is on the wane, Nor love nor joy is mine again.

Love's sun went down without a frown, For very joy it used to grieve us; I often think the West is gone, Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us. The stream it is a common stream, Where we on Sundays used to ramble, The sky hangs oer a broken dream, The bramble's dwindled to a bramble! O Poesy is on the wane, I cannot find her haunts again.

Mere withered stalks and fading trees, And pastures spread with hills and rushes, Are all my fading vision sees; Gone, gone are rapture's flooding gushes! When mushrooms they were fairy bowers, Their marble pillars overswelling, And Danger paused to pluck the flowers That in their swarthy rings were dwelling. Yes, Poesy is on the wane, Nor joy nor fear is mine again.

Aye, Poesy hath passed away, And Fancy's visions undeceive us; The night hath ta'en the place of day, And why should passing shadows grieve us? I thought the flowers upon the hills Were flowers from Adam's open gardens; But I have had my summer thrills, And I have had my heart's rewardings. So Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again.

And Friendship it hath burned away, Like to a very ember cooling, A make-believe on April day That sent the simple heart a-fooling; Mere jesting in an earnest way, Deceiving on and still deceiving; And Hope is but a fancy-play, And Joy the art of true believing; For Poesy is on the wane, O could I feel her faith again!

The Cellar Door

By the old tavern door on the causey there lay A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray, And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a drop As dry as the cinders that lay in his shop; And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun, Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun. He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and hone Till he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone; So ere he could work—though he'd lost the whole day— He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.

The cellar was empty, each barrel was drained To its dregs—and Sir John like a rebel remained In the street—for removal too powerful and large For two or three topers to take into charge. Odd zooks, said a gipsey, with bellows to mend, Had I strength I would just be for helping a friend To walk on his legs: but a child in the street Had as much power as he to put John on his feet. Then up came the blacksmith: Sir Barley, said he, I should just like to storm your old tower for a spree;

And my strength for your strength and bar your renown I'd soon try your spirit by cracking your crown. And the cobbler he tuckt up his apron and spit In his hands for a burster—but devil a bit Would he move—so as yet they made nothing of land; For there lay the knight like a whale in the sand. Said the tinker: If I could but drink of his vein I should just be as strong and as stubborn again. Push along, said the toper, the cellar's adry: There's nothing to moisten the mouth of a fly.

Says the host, We shall burn out with thirst, he's so big. There's a cag of small swipes half as sour as a wig. In such like extremes, why, extremes will come pat; So let's go and wet all our whistles with that. Says the gipsey, May I never bottom a chair If I drink of small swipes while Sir John's lying there. And the blacksmith he threw off his apron and swore Small swipes should bemoisten his gullet no more: Let it out on the floor for the dry cock-a-roach— And he held up his hammer with threatens to broach

Sir John in his castle without leave or law And suck out his blood with a reed or a straw Ere he'd soak at the swipes—and he turned him to start, Till the host for high treason came down a full quart. Just then passed the dandy and turned up his nose: They'd fain have him shove, but he looked at his clothes And nipt his nose closer and twirled his stick round And simpered, Tis nuisance to lie on the ground. But Bacchus, he laughed from the old tavern sign, Saying, Go on, thou shadow, and let the sun shine.

Then again they all tried, and the tinker he swore That the hogshead had grown twice as heavy or more. Nay nay, said the toper, and reeled as he spoke, We're all getting weak, that's the end of the joke. The ploughman came up and cut short his old tune, Hallooed "woi" to his horses and though it was June Said he'd help them an hour ere he'd keep them adry; Well done, said the blacksmith with hopes running high; He moves, and, by jingo, success to the plough! Aye aye, said the cobbler, we'll conquer him now.

The hogshead rolled forward, the toper fell back, And the host laughed aloud as his sides they would crack To see the old tinker's toil make such a gap In his coat as to rend it from collar to flap. But the tinker he grumbled and cried Fiddle-dee! This garment hath been an old tenant with me; And a needle and thread with a little good skill When I've leisure will make it stand more weathers still. Then crack went his breeks from the hip to the knee With his thrusting—no matter; for nothing cared he.

So long as Sir John rolled along to the door, He's a chip of our block, said the blacksmith, and swore; And as sure as I live to drive nails in a shoe He shall have at my cost a full pitcher or two. And the toper he hiccuped—which hindered an oath— So long as he'd credit, he'd pitcher them both. But the host stopt to hint when he'd ordered the dray Sir Barleycorn's order was purchase and pay. And now the old knight is imprisoned and ta'en To waste in the tavern man's cellar again.

And now, said the blacksmith, let forfeits come first For the insult swipes offered, or his hoops I will burst. Here it is, my old hearties—Then drink your thirst full, Said the host, for the stingo is worth a strong pull. Never fear for your legs if they're broken to-day; Winds only blow straws, dust, and feathers away. But the cask that is full, like a giant he lies, And giants alone can his spirits capsize. If he lies in the path, though a king's coming bye, John Barleycorn's mighty and there he will lie.

Then the toper sat down with a hiccup and felt If he'd still an odd coin in his pocket to melt, And he made a wry face, for his pocket was bare. —But he laughed and danced up, What, old boy, are you there? When he felt that a stiver had got to his knee Through a hole in his fob, and right happy was he. Says the tinker, I've brawled till no breath I have got And not met with twopence to purchase a pot. Says the toper, I've powder to charge a long gun, And a stiver I've found when I thought I'd got none;

So helping a thirsty old friend in his need Is my duty—take heart, thou art welcome indeed. Then the smith with his tools in Sir John made a breach, And the toper he hiccuped and ended his speech; And pulled at the quart, till the snob he declared When he went to drink next that the bottom was bared. No matter for that, said the toper, and grinned; I had but a soak and neer rested for wind. That's the law, said the smith, with a look rather vexed, But the quart was a forfeit; so pay for the next.

Thus they talked of their skill and their labour till noon When the sober man's toil was exactly half done, And there the plough lay—people hardly could pass And the horses let loose polished up the short grass And browsed on the bottle of flags lying there, By the gipsey's old budget, for mending a chair. The miller's horse tied to the old smithy door Stood stamping his feet, by the flies bitten sore, Awaiting the smith as he wanted a shoe; And he stampt till another fell off and made two:

Till the miller, expecting that all would get loose, Went to seek him and cursed him outright for a goose; But he dipt his dry beak in the mug once or twice And forgot all his passion and toil in a trice. And the flybitten horse at the old smithy post Might stamp till his shoes and his legs they were lost. He sung his old songs and forgot his old mill— Blow winds high or low, she might rest her at will. And the cobbler, in spite of his bustle for pelf, Left the shop all the day to take care of itself.

And the toper who carried his house on his head, No wife to be teazing, no bairns to be fed, Would sit out the week or the month or the year Or a life-time so long as he'd credit for beer. The ploughman he talked of his skill as divine, How he could plough thurrows as straight as a line; And the blacksmith he swore, had he but the command, He could shoe the king's hunter the best in the land; And the cobbler declared, was his skill but once seen, He should soon get an order for shoes from the queen.

But the tinker he swore he could beat them all three, For gi' me a pair of old bellows, says he, And I'll make them roar out like the wind in a storm And make them blow fire out of coal hardly warm. The toper said nothing but wished the quart full And swore he could toss it all off at a pull. Have one, said the tinker; but wit was away, When the bet was to bind him he'd nothing to pay. And thus in the face of life's sun-and-shower weather They drank, bragged, and sung, and got merry together.

The sun he went down—the last gleam from his brow Flung a smile of repose on the holiday plough; The glooms they approached, and the dews like a rain Fell thick and hung pearls on the old sorrel mane Of the horse that the miller had brought to be shod, And the morning awoke, saw a sight rather odd— For a bit of the halter still hung at the door, Bit through by the horse now at feed on the moor; And the old tinker's budget lay still in the weather, While all kept on singing and drinking together.

The Flitting

I've left my own old home of homes, Green fields and every pleasant place; The summer like a stranger comes, I pause and hardly know her face. I miss the hazel's happy green, The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms, Where envy's sneer was never seen, Where staring malice never comes.

I miss the heath, its yellow furze, Molehills and rabbit tracks that lead Through beesom, ling, and teazel burrs That spread a wilderness indeed; The woodland oaks and all below That their white powdered branches shield, The mossy paths: the very crow Croaks music in my native field.

I sit me in my corner chair That seems to feel itself from home, And hear bird music here and there From hawthorn hedge and orchard come; I hear, but all is strange and new: I sat on my old bench in June, The sailing puddock's shrill "peelew" On Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.

I walk adown the narrow lane, The nightingale is singing now, But like to me she seems at loss For Royce Wood and its shielding bough. I lean upon the window sill, The trees and summer happy seem; Green, sunny green they shine, but still My heart goes far away to dream.

Of happiness, and thoughts arise With home-bred pictures many a one, Green lanes that shut out burning skies And old crooked stiles to rest upon; Above them hangs the maple tree, Below grass swells a velvet hill, And little footpaths sweet to see Go seeking sweeter places still,

With bye and bye a brook to cross Oer which a little arch is thrown: No brook is here, I feel the loss From home and friends and all alone. —The stone pit with its shelvy sides Seemed hanging rocks in my esteem; I miss the prospect far and wide From Langley Bush, and so I seem

Alone and in a stranger scene, Far, far from spots my heart esteems, The closen with their ancient green, Heaths, woods, and pastures, sunny streams. The hawthorns here were hung with may, But still they seem in deader green, The sun een seems to lose its way Nor knows the quarter it is in.

I dwell in trifles like a child, I feel as ill becomes a man, And still my thoughts like weedlings wild Grow up to blossom where they can. They turn to places known so long I feel that joy was dwelling there, So home-fed pleasure fills the song That has no present joys to hear.

I read in books for happiness, But books are like the sea to joy, They change—as well give age the glass To hunt its visage when a boy. For books they follow fashions new And throw all old esteems away, In crowded streets flowers never grew, But many there hath died away.

Some sing the pomps of chivalry As legends of the ancient time, Where gold and pearls and mystery Are shadows painted for sublime; But passions of sublimity Belong to plain and simpler things, And David underneath a tree Sought when a shepherd Salem's springs,

Where moss did into cushions spring, Forming a seat of velvet hue, A small unnoticed trifling thing To all but heaven's hailing dew. And David's crown hath passed away, Yet poesy breathes his shepherd-skill, His palace lost—and to this day The little moss is blossoming still.

Strange scenes mere shadows are to me, Vague impersonifying things; I love with my old haunts to be By quiet woods and gravel springs, Where little pebbles wear as smooth As hermits' beads by gentle floods, Whose noises do my spirits soothe And warm them into singing moods.

Here every tree is strange to me, All foreign things where eer I go, There's none where boyhood made a swee Or clambered up to rob a crow. No hollow tree or woodland bower Well known when joy was beating high, Where beauty ran to shun a shower And love took pains to keep her dry,

And laid the sheaf upon the ground To keep her from the dripping grass, And ran for stocks and set them round Till scarce a drop of rain could pass Through; where the maidens they reclined And sung sweet ballads now forgot, Which brought sweet memories to the mind, But here no memory knows them not.

There have I sat by many a tree And leaned oer many a rural stile, And conned my thoughts as joys to me, Nought heeding who might frown or smile. Twas nature's beauty that inspired My heart with rapture not its own, And she's a fame that never tires; How could I feel myself alone?

No, pasture molehills used to lie And talk to me of sunny days, And then the glad sheep resting bye All still in ruminating praise Of summer and the pleasant place And every weed and blossom too Was looking upward in my face With friendship's welcome "how do ye do?"

All tenants of an ancient place And heirs of noble heritage, Coeval they with Adam's race And blest with more substantial age. For when the world first saw the sun These little flowers beheld him too, And when his love for earth begun They were the first his smiles to woo.

There little lambtoe bunches springs In red tinged and begolden dye For ever, and like China kings They come but never seem to die. There may-bloom with its little threads Still comes upon the thorny bowers And neer forgets those prickly heads Like fairy pins amid the flowers.

And still they bloom as on the day They first crowned wilderness and rock, When Abel haply wreathed with may The firstlings of his little flock, And Eve might from the matted thorn To deck her lone and lovely brow Reach that same rose that heedless scorn Misnames as the dog rosey now.

Give me no high-flown fangled things, No haughty pomp in marching chime, Where muses play on golden strings And splendour passes for sublime, Where cities stretch as far as fame And fancy's straining eye can go, And piled until the sky for shame Is stooping far away below.

I love the verse that mild and bland Breathes of green fields and open sky, I love the muse that in her hand Bears flowers of native poesy; Who walks nor skips the pasture brook In scorn, but by the drinking horse Leans oer its little brig to look How far the sallows lean across,

And feels a rapture in her breast Upon their root-fringed grains to mark A hermit morehen's sedgy nest Just like a naiad's summer bark. She counts the eggs she cannot reach Admires the spot and loves it well, And yearns, so nature's lessons teach, Amid such neighbourhoods to dwell.

I love the muse who sits her down Upon the molehill's little lap, Who feels no fear to stain her gown And pauses by the hedgerow gap; Not with that affectation, praise Of song, to sing and never see A field flower grown in all her days Or een a forest's aged tree.

Een here my simple feelings nurse A love for every simple weed, And een this little shepherd's purse Grieves me to cut it up; indeed I feel at times a love and joy For every weed and every thing, A feeling kindred from a boy, A feeling brought with every Spring.

And why? this shepherd's purse that grows In this strange spot, in days gone bye Grew in the little garden rows Of my old home now left; and I Feel what I never felt before, This weed an ancient neighbour here, And though I own the spot no more Its every trifle makes it dear.

The ivy at the parlour end, The woodbine at the garden gate, Are all and each affection's friend That render parting desolate. But times will change and friends must part And nature still can make amends; Their memory lingers round the heart Like life whose essence is its friends.

Time looks on pomp with vengeful mood Or killing apathy's disdain; So where old marble cities stood Poor persecuted weeds remain. She feels a love for little things That very few can feel beside, And still the grass eternal springs Where castles stood and grandeur died.

Remembrances

Summer's pleasures they are gone like to visions every one, And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on. I tried to call them back, but unbidden they are gone Far away from heart and eye and forever far away. Dear heart, and can it be that such raptures meet decay? I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay, I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play On its bank at "clink and bandy," "chock" and "taw" and "ducking stone," Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own Like a ruin of the past all alone.

When I used to lie and sing by old Eastwell's boiling spring, When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a swing, And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a thing, With heart just like a feather, now as heavy as a stone; When beneath old Lea Close oak I the bottom branches broke To make our harvest cart like so many working folk, And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak. O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting, Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to wing, Leaving nothing but a little naked spring.

When jumping time away on old Crossberry Way, And eating awes like sugarplums ere they had lost the may, And skipping like a leveret before the peep of day On the roly poly up and downs of pleasant Swordy Well, When in Round Oak's narrow lane as the south got black again We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain, With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain; How delicious was the dinner time on such a showery day! O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away, The ancient pulpit trees and the play.

When for school oer Little Field with its brook and wooden brig, Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big, While I held my little plough though twas but a willow twig, And drove my team along made of nothing but a name, "Gee hep" and "hoit" and "woi"—O I never call to mind These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind, While I see little mouldiwarps hang sweeing to the wind On the only aged willow that in all the field remains, And nature hides her face while they're sweeing in their chains And in a silent murmuring complains.

Here was commons for their hills, where they seek for freedom still, Though every common's gone and though traps are set to kill The little homeless miners—O it turns my bosom chill When I think of old Sneap Green, Puddock's Nook and Hilly Snow, Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in dew And the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view, Where we threw the pismire crumbs when we'd nothing else to do, All levelled like a desert by the never weary plough, All banished like the sun where that cloud is passing now And settled here for ever on its brow.

O I never thought that joys would run away from boys, Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such summer joys; But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toys To petrify first feelings like the fable into stone, Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at last, Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got overcast And boyhood's pleasing haunt like a blossom in the blast Was shrivelled to a withered weed and trampled down and done, Till vanished was the morning spring and set the summer sun And winter fought her battle strife and won.

By Langley Bush I roam, but the bush hath left its hill, On Cowper Green I stray, tis a desert strange and chill, And the spreading Lea Close oak, ere decay had penned its will, To the axe of the spoiler and self-interest fell a prey, And Crossberry Way and old Round Oak's narrow lane With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again, Enclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain, It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill And hung the moles for traitors—though the brook is running still It runs a sicker brook, cold and chill.

O had I known as then joy had left the paths of men, I had watched her night and day, be sure, and never slept agen, And when she turned to go, O I'd caught her mantle then, And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to stay; Ay, knelt and worshipped on, as love in beauty's bower, And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon a flower, And gave her heart my posies, all cropt in a sunny hour, As keepsakes and pledges all to never fade away; But love never heeded to treasure up the may, So it went the common road to decay.

The Cottager

True as the church clock hand the hour pursues He plods about his toils and reads the news, And at the blacksmith's shop his hour will stand To talk of "Lunun" as a foreign land. For from his cottage door in peace or strife He neer went fifty miles in all his life. His knowledge with old notions still combined Is twenty years behind the march of mind. He views new knowledge with suspicious eyes And thinks it blasphemy to be so wise. On steam's almighty tales he wondering looks As witchcraft gleaned from old blackletter books. Life gave him comfort but denied him wealth, He toils in quiet and enjoys his health, He smokes a pipe at night and drinks his beer And runs no scores on tavern screens to clear. He goes to market all the year about And keeps one hour and never stays it out. Een at St. Thomas tide old Rover's bark Hails Dapple's trot an hour before it's dark. He is a simple-worded plain old man Whose good intents take errors in their plan. Oft sentimental and with saddened vein He looks on trifles and bemoans their pain, And thinks the angler mad, and loudly storms With emphasis of speech oer murdered worms. And hunters cruel—pleading with sad care Pity's petition for the fox and hare, Yet feels self-satisfaction in his woes For war's crushed myriads of his slaughtered foes. He is right scrupulous in one pretext And wholesale errors swallows in the next. He deems it sin to sing, yet not to say A song—a mighty difference in his way. And many a moving tale in antique rhymes He has for Christmas and such merry times, When "Chevy Chase," his masterpiece of song, Is said so earnest none can think it long. Twas the old vicar's way who should be right, For the late vicar was his heart's delight, And while at church he often shakes his head To think what sermons the old vicar made, Downright and orthodox that all the land Who had their ears to hear might understand, But now such mighty learning meets his ears He thinks it Greek or Latin which he hears, Yet church receives him every sabbath day And rain or snow he never keeps away. All words of reverence still his heart reveres, Low bows his head when Jesus meets his ears, And still he thinks it blasphemy as well Such names without a capital to spell. In an old corner cupboard by the wall His books are laid, though good, in number small, His Bible first in place; from worth and age Whose grandsire's name adorns the title page, And blank leaves once, now filled with kindred claims, Display a world's epitome of names. Parents and children and grandchildren all Memory's affections in the lists recall. And prayer-book next, much worn though strongly bound, Proves him a churchman orthodox and sound. The "Pilgrim's Progress" and the "Death of Abel" Are seldom missing from his Sunday table, And prime old Tusser in his homely trim, The first of bards in all the world with him, And only poet which his leisure knows; Verse deals in fancy, so he sticks to prose. These are the books he reads and reads again And weekly hunts the almanacks for rain. Here and no further learning's channels ran; Still, neighbours prize him as the learned man. His cottage is a humble place of rest With one spare room to welcome every guest, And that tall poplar pointing to the sky His own hand planted when an idle boy, It shades his chimney while the singing wind Hums songs of shelter to his happy mind. Within his cot the largest ears of corn He ever found his picture frames adorn: Brave Granby's head, De Grosse's grand defeat; He rubs his hands and shows how Rodney beat. And from the rafters upon strings depend Beanstalks beset with pods from end to end, Whose numbers without counting may be seen Wrote on the almanack behind the screen. Around the corner up on worsted strung Pooties in wreaths above the cupboard hung. Memory at trifling incidents awakes And there he keeps them for his children's sakes, Who when as boys searched every sedgy lane, Traced every wood and shattered clothes again, Roaming about on rapture's easy wing To hunt those very pooty shells in spring. And thus he lives too happy to be poor While strife neer pauses at so mean a door. Low in the sheltered valley stands his cot, He hears the mountain storm and feels it not; Winter and spring, toil ceasing ere tis dark, Rests with the lamb and rises with the lark, Content his helpmate to the day's employ And care neer comes to steal a single joy. Time, scarcely noticed, turns his hair to grey, Yet leaves him happy as a child at play.