Chapter 6
Come away with me, Tom, Term and talk are done; My poor lads are reaping, Busy every one. Curates mind the parish, Sweepers mind the court; We'll away to Snowdon For our ten days' sport; Fish the August evening Till the eve is past, Whoop like boys, at pounders Fairly played and grassed. When they cease to dimple, Lunge, and swerve, and leap, Then up over Siabod, Choose our nest, and sleep. Up a thousand feet, Tom, Round the lion's head, Find soft stones to leeward And make up our bed. Eat our bread and bacon, Smoke the pipe of peace, And, ere we be drowsy, Give our boots a grease. Homer's heroes did so, Why not such as we? What are sheets and servants? Superfluity! Pray for wives and children Safe in slumber curled, Then to chat till midnight O'er this babbling world-- Of the workmen's college, Of the price of grain, Of the tree of knowledge, Of the chance of rain; If Sir A. goes Romeward, If Miss B. sings true, If the fleet comes homeward, If the mare will do,-- Anything and everything-- Up there in the sky Angels understand us, And no 'saints' are by. Down, and bathe at day-dawn, Tramp from lake to lake, Washing brain and heart clean Every step we take. Leave to Robert Browning Beggars, fleas, and vines; Leave to mournful Ruskin Popish Apennines, Dirty Stones of Venice And his Gas-lamps Seven-- We've the stones of Snowdon And the lamps of heaven. Where's the mighty credit In admiring Alps? Any goose sees 'glory' In their 'snowy scalps.' Leave such signs and wonders For the dullard brain, As aesthetic brandy, Opium and cayenne. Give me Bramshill common (St. John's harriers by), Or the vale of Windsor, England's golden eye. Show me life and progress, Beauty, health, and man; Houses fair, trim gardens, Turn where'er I can. Or, if bored with 'High Art,' And such popish stuff, One's poor ear need airing, Snowdon's high enough. While we find God's signet Fresh on English ground, Why go gallivanting With the nations round? Though we try no ventures Desperate or strange; Feed on commonplaces In a narrow range; Never sought for Franklin Round the frozen Capes; Even, with Macdougall, {295} Bagged our brace of apes; Never had our chance, Tom, In that black Redan; Can't avenge poor Brereton Out in Sakarran; Tho' we earn our bread, Tom, By the dirty pen, What we can we will be, Honest Englishmen. Do the work that's nearest, Though it's dull at whiles, Helping, when we meet them, Lame dogs over stiles; See in every hedgerow Marks of angels' feet, Epics in each pebble Underneath our feet; Once a year, like schoolboys, Robin-Hooding go, Leaving fops and fogies A thousand feet below.
Eversley, August 1856.
THE FIND
Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark, They're running--they're running, Go hark! The sport may be lost by a moment's delay; So whip up the puppies and scurry away. Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell, There's a gate at the bottom--I know it full well; And they're running--they're running, Go hark!
They're running--they're running, Go hark! One fence and we're out of the park; Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook, Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look; Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind; He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind, And they're running--they're running, Go hark!
They're running--they're running, Go hark! Let them run on and run till it's dark! Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be, While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see: Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight, And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night Of--They're running--they're running, Go hark!
Eversley, 1856.
FISHING SONG: TO J. A. FROUDE AND TOM HUGHES
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good, To point us out this way to glory-- They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes, And all their pounders myth and story. Blow Snowdon! What's Lake Gwynant to Killarney, Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose, I'll tell you where we think of going, To swate and far o'er cliff and scar, Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing; Blow Snowdon! There's a hundred lakes to try in, And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
Geology and botany A hundred wonders shall diskiver, We'll flog and troll in strid and hole, And skim the cream of lake and river, Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies, Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and--Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!
Eversley, 1856
THE LAST BUCCANEER
Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.
There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.
Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.
Oh the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.
Oh sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.
But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.
Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.
And now I'm old and going--I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.
Eversley, 1857,
THE KNIGHT'S RETURN
Hark! hark! hark! The lark sings high in the dark. The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan, The raven croaks from the Raven-stone; What care I for his boding groan, Riding the moorland to come to mine own? Hark! hark! hark! The lark sings high in the dark.
Hark! hark! hark! The lark sings high in the dark. Long have I wander'd by land and by sea, Long have I ridden by moorland and lea; Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee, Sits at the window and watches for me! Hark! hark! hark! The lark sings high in the dark.
Written for music, 1857.
PEN-Y-GWRYDD: TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ.
There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear, Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can't pronounce it, dear), Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three-- One is the vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me, One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can't mind its name, And one it is Llanberris Pass, which all men knows the same; Between which radiations vast mountains does arise, As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish will rise, That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, my boy, Just about ten o'clock at night; and then I wish you joy. Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write, (Axing the post town out of Froude, for I can't mind it quite), And to engage a room or two, for let us say a week, For fear of gents, and Manichees, and reading parties meek, And there to live like fighting-cocks at almost a bob a day, And arterwards toward the sea make tracks and cut away, All for to catch the salmon bold in Aberglaslyn pool, And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will, or I'm a fool. And that's my game, which if you like, respond to me by post; But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen days at most. Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four will do, And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and sells 'em too. Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise just now, And so, goes to my children's school and 'umbly makes my bow.
Eversley, 1857.
ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, 1862 {303}
Hence a while, severer Muses; Spare your slaves till drear October. Hence; for Alma Mater chooses Not to be for ever sober: But, like stately matron gray, Calling child and grandchild round her, Will for them at least be gay; Share for once their holiday; And, knowing she will sleep the sounder, Cheerier-hearted on the morrow Rise to grapple care and sorrow, Grandly leads the dance adown, and joins the children's play. So go, for in your places Already, as you see, (Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried), Venus holds court among her sinless graces, With many a nymph from many a park and lea. She, pensive, waits the merrier faces Of those your wittier sisters three, O'er jest and dance and song who still preside, To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide; And bids us, as she smiles or sighs, Tune our fancies by her eyes.
Then let the young be glad, Fair girl and gallant lad, And sun themselves to-day By lawn and garden gay; 'Tis play befits the noon Of rosy-girdled June: Who dare frown if heaven shall smile? Blest, who can forget a while; The world before them, and above The light of universal love. Go, then, let the young be gay; From their heart as from their dress Let darkness and let mourning pass away, While we the staid and worn look on and bless.
Health to courage firm and high! Health to Granta's chivalry! Wisely finding, day by day, Play in toil, and toil in play. Granta greets them, gliding down On by park and spire and town; Humming mills and golden meadows, Barred with elm and poplar shadows; Giant groves, and learned halls; Holy fanes and pictured walls. Yet she bides not here; around Lies the Muses' sacred ground. Most she lingers, where below Gliding wherries come and go; Stalwart footsteps shake the shores; Rolls the pulse of stalwart oars; Rings aloft the exultant cry For the bloodless victory. There she greets the sports, which breed Valiant lads for England's need; Wisely finding, day by day, Play in toil, and toil in play. Health to courage, firm and high! Health to Granta's chivalry!
Yet stay a while, severer Muses, stay, For you, too, have your rightful parts to-day. Known long to you, and known through you to fame, Are Chatsworth's halls, and Cavendish's name. You too, then, Alma Mater calls to greet A worthy patron for your ancient seat; And bid her sons from him example take, Of learning purely sought for learning's sake, Of worth unboastful, power in duty spent; And see, fulfilled in him, her high intent.
Come, Euterpe, wake thy choir; Fit thy notes to our desire. Long may he sit the chiefest here, Meet us and greet us, year by year; Long inherit, sire and son, All that their race has wrought and won, Since that great Cavendish came again, Round the world and over the main, Breasting the Thames with his mariners bold, Past good Queen Bess's palace of old; With jewel and ingot packed in his hold, And sails of damask and cloth of gold; While never a sailor-boy on board But was decked as brave as a Spanish lord, With the spoils he had won In the Isles of the Sun, And the shores of Fairy-land, And yet held for the crown of the goodly show, That queenly smile from the Palace window, And that wave of a queenly hand. Yes, let the young be gay, And sun themselves to-day;-- And from their hearts, as from their dress, Let mourning pass away. But not from us, who watch our years fast fleeing, And snatching as they flee, fresh fragments of our being. Can we forget one friend, Can we forget one face, Which cheered us toward our end, Which nerved us for our race? Oh sad to toil, and yet forego One presence which has made us know To Godlike souls how deep our debt! We would not, if we could, forget.
Severer Muses, linger yet; Speak out for us one pure and rich regret. Thou, Clio, who, with awful pen, Gravest great names upon the hearts of men, Speak of a fate beyond our ken; A gem late found and lost too soon; {306} A sun gone down at highest noon; A tree from Odin's ancient root, Which bore for men the ancient fruit, Counsel, and faith and scorn of wrong, And cunning lore, and soothing song, Snapt in mid-growth, and leaving unaware The flock unsheltered and the pasture bare Nay, let us take what God shall send, Trusting bounty without end. God ever lives; and Nature, Beneath His high dictature, Hale and teeming, can replace Strength by strength, and grace by grace, Hope by hope, and friend by friend: Trust; and take what God shall send. So shall Alma Mater see Daughters fair and wise Train new lands of liberty Under stranger skies; Spreading round the teeming earth English science, manhood, worth.
1862.
SONGS FROM 'THE WATER-BABIES'
THE TIDE RIVER
Clear and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool; Cool and clear, cool and clear, By shining shingle, and foaming wear; Under the crag where the ouzel sings, And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, Undefiled, for the undefiled; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.
Dank and foul, dank and foul, By the smoky town in its murky cowl; Foul and dank, foul and dank, By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; Darker and darker the farther I go, Baser and baser the richer I grow; Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.
Strong and free, strong and free, The floodgates are open, away to the sea. Free and strong, free and strong, Cleansing my streams as I hurry along To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, And the taintless tide that awaits me afar, As I lose myself in the infinite main, Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again. Undefiled, for the undefiled; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.
From The Water-Babies. Eversley, 1862.
YOUNG AND OLD
When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down; Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among: God grant you find one face there, You loved when all was young.
From The Water-Babies. 1862
THE SUMMER SEA
Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding, Waft thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea; Thin thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining Weave a veil of dappled gauze to shade my babe and me.
Deep deep Love, within thine own abyss abiding, Pour Thyself abroad, O Lord, on earth and air and sea; Worn weary hearts within Thy holy temple hiding, Shield from sorrow, sin, and shame my helpless babe and me.
From The Water-Babies. 1862
MY LITTLE DOLL
I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day; And I cried for more than a week, dears, But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day: Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away, And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears And her hair not the least bit curled: Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world.
From The Water-Babies. Eversley, 1862.
THE KNIGHT'S LEAP: A LEGEND OF ALTENAHR
'So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine; And the water is spent and gone? Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine: I never shall drink but this one.
'And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse, And lead him me round to the door: He must take such a leap to-night perforce, As horse never took before.
'I have fought my fight, I have lived my life, I have drunk my share of wine; From Trier to Coln there was never a knight Led a merrier life than mine.
'I have lived by the saddle for years two score; And if I must die on tree, Then the old saddle tree, which has borne me of yore, Is the properest timber for me.
'So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest, How the Altenahr hawk can die: If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest, He must take to his wings and fly.'
He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine, And he mounted his horse at the door; And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine, As man never drained before.
He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight, And he leapt him out over the wall; Out over the cliff, out into the night, Three hundred feet of fall.
They found him next morning below in the glen, With never a bone in him whole-- A mass or a prayer, now, good gentlemen, For such a bold rider's soul.
Eversley, 1864.
THE SONG OF THE LITTLE BALTUNG. A.D. 395
A harper came over the Danube so wide, And he came into Alaric's hall, And he sang the song of the little Baltung To him and his heroes all.
How the old old Balt and the young young Balt Rode out of Caucaland, With the royal elephant's trunk on helm And the royal lance in hand.
Thuringer heroes, counts and knights, Pricked proud in their meinie; For they were away to the great Kaiser, In Byzant beside the sea.
And when they came to the Danube so wide They shouted from off the shore, 'Come over, come over, ye Roman slaves, And ferry your masters o'er.'
And when they came to Adrian's burgh, With its towers so smooth and high, 'Come out, come out, ye Roman knaves, And see your lords ride by.'
But when they came lo the long long walls That stretch from sea to sea, That old old Balt let down his chin, And a thoughtful man grew he.
'Oh oft have I scoffed at brave Fridigern, But never will I scoff more, If these be the walls which kept him out From the Micklegard there on the shore.'
Then out there came the great Kaiser, With twice ten thousand men; But never a Thuring was coward enough To wish himself home again.
'Bow down, thou rebel, old Athanarich, And beg thy life this day; The Kaiser is lord of all the world, And who dare say him nay?'
'I never came out of Caucaland To beg for less nor more; But to see the pride of the great Kaiser, In his Micklegard here by the shore.
'I never came out of Caucaland To bow to mortal wight, But to shake the hand of the great Kaiser, And God defend my right.'
He shook his hand, that cunning Kaiser, And he kissed him courteouslie, And he has ridden with Athanarich That wonder-town to see.
He showed him his walls of marble white-- A mile o'erhead they shone; Quoth the Balt, 'Who would leap into that garden, King Siegfried's boots must own.'
He showed him his engines of arsmetrick And his wells of quenchless flame, And his flying rocks, that guarded his walls From all that against him came.
He showed him his temples and pillared halls, And his streets of houses high; And his watch-towers tall, where his star-gazers Sit reading the signs of the sky.
He showed him his ships with their hundred oars, And their sides like a castle wall, That fetch home the plunder of all the world, At the Kaiser's beck and call.
He showed him all nations of every tongue That are bred beneath the sun, How they flowed together in Micklegard street As the brooks flow all into one.
He showed him the shops of the china ware, And of silk and sendal also, And he showed him the baths and the waterpipes On arches aloft that go.
He showed him ostrich and unicorn, Ape, lion, and tiger keen; And elephants wise roared 'Hail Kaiser!' As though they had Christians been.
He showed him the hoards of the dragons and trolls, Rare jewels and heaps of gold-- 'Hast thou seen, in all thy hundred years, Such as these, thou king so old?'
Now that cunning Kaiser was a scholar wise, And could of gramarye, And he cast a spell on that old old Balt, Till lowly and meek spake he.
'Oh oft have I heard of the Micklegard, What I held for chapmen's lies; But now do I know of the Micklegard, By the sight of mine own eyes.
'Woden in Valhalla, But thou on earth art God; And he that dare withstand thee, Kaiser, On his own head lies his blood.'
Then out and spake that little Baltung, Rode at the king's right knee, Quoth 'Fridigern slew false Kaiser Valens, And he died like you or me.'
'And who art thou, thou pretty bold boy, Rides at the king's right knee?' 'Oh I am the Baltung, boy Alaric, And as good a man as thee.'
'As good as me, thou pretty bold boy, With down upon thy chin?' 'Oh a spae-wife laid a doom on me, The best of thy realm to win.'
'If thou be so fierce, thou little wolf cub Or ever thy teeth be grown; Then I must guard my two young sons Lest they should lose their own.'
'Oh, it's I will guard your two lither lads, In their burgh beside the sea, And it's I will prove true man to them If they will prove true to me.
'But it's you must warn your two lither lads, And warn them bitterly, That if I shall find them two false Kaisers, High hanged they both shall be.'
Now they are gone into the Kaiser's palace To eat the peacock fine, And they are gone into the Kaiser's palace To drink the good Greek wine.
The Kaiser alone, and the old old Balt, They sat at the cedar board; And round them served on the bended knee Full many a Roman lord.
'What ails thee, what ails thee, friend Athanarich? What makes thee look so pale?' 'I fear I am poisoned, thou cunning Kaiser, For I feel my heart-strings fail.
'Oh would I had kept that great great oath I swore by the horse's head, I would never set foot on Roman ground Till the day that I lay dead.
'Oh would I were home in Caucaland, To hear my harpers play, And to drink my last of the nut-brown ale, While I gave the gold rings away.
'Oh would I were home in Caucaland, To hear the Gothmen's horn, And watch the waggons, and brown brood mares And the tents where I was born.
'But now I must die between four stone walls In Byzant beside the sea: And as thou shalt deal with my little Baltung, So God shall deal with thee.'
The Kaiser he purged himself with oaths, And he buried him royally, And he set on his barrow an idol of gold, Where all Romans must bow the knee.
And now the Goths are the Kaiser's men, And guard him with lance and sword, And the little Baltung is his sworn son-at-arms, And eats at the Kaiser's board,
And the Kaiser's two sons are two false white lads That a clerk may beat with cane. The clerk that should beat that little Baltung Would never sing mass again.
Oh the gates of Rome they are steel without, And beaten gold within: But they shall fly wide to the little Baltung With the down upon his chin.