Chapter 2
Soon as he ended, acclamations 'rose, Endang'ring modesty and self-repose, Till the good host his prudent counsel gave, Then listen'd all, the flippant and the grave. "Let not applauses vanity inspire, "Deter humility, or damp desire; "Neighbours we are, then let the stream run fair, "And every couplet be as free as air; "Be silent when each speaker claims his right, "Enjoy the day as I enjoy the sight: "They shall not class us with the knavish elves, "Who banish shame, and criticise themselves."
Thenceforward converse flow'd with perfect ease, Midst country wit, and rustic repartees. One drank to Ellen, if such might be found, And archly glanced at female faces round. If one with tilted can began to bawl, Another cried, "Remember Andrew Hall."
Then, multifarious topics, corn and hay, Vestry intrigues, the rates they had to pay, The thriving stock, the lands too wet, too dry, And all that bears on fruitful husbandry, Ran mingling through the crowd--a crowd that might, Transferr'd to canvas, give the world delight; A scene that WILKIE might have touch'd with pride-- The May-day banquet then had never died.
But who is he, uprisen, with eye so keen, In garb of shining plush of grassy green-- Dogs climbing round him, eager for the start, With ceaseless tail, and doubly beating heart? A stranger, who from distant forests came, The sturdy keeper of the Oakly game. Short prelude made, he pointed o'er the hill, And raised a voice that every ear might fill; His heart was in his theme, and in the forest still.
THE FORESTER.
THE FORESTER.
Born in a dark wood's lonely dell, Where echoes roar'd, and tendrils curl'd Round a low cot, like hermit's cell, Old Salcey Forest was my world. I felt no bonds, no shackles then, For life in freedom was begun; I gloried in th' exploits of men, And learn'd to lift my father's gun.
O what a joy it gave my heart! Wild as a woodbine up I grew; Soon in his feats I bore a part, And counted all the game he slew. I learn'd the wiles, the shifts, the calls, The language of each living thing; I mark'd the hawk that darting falls, Or station'd spreads the trembling wing.
I mark'd the owl that silent flits, The hare that feeds at eventide, The upright rabbit, when he sits And mocks you, ere he deigns to hide. I heard the fox bark through the night, I saw the rooks depart at morn, I saw the wild deer dancing light, And heard the hunter's cheering horn.
Mad with delight, I roam'd around From morn to eve throughout the year, But still, midst all I sought or found, My favourites were the spotted deer. The elegant, the branching brow, The doe's clean limbs and eyes of love; The fawn as white as mountain snow, That glanced through fern and brier and grove.
One dark, autumnal, stormy day, The gale was up in all its might, The roaring forest felt its sway, And clouds were scudding quick as light: A ruthless crash, a hollow groan, Aroused each self-preserving start, The kine in herds, the hare alone, And shagged colts that grazed apart.
Midst fears instinctive, wonder drew The boldest forward, gathering strength As darkness lour'd, and whirlwinds blew, To where the ruin stretch'd his length. The shadowing oak, the noblest stem That graced the forest's ample bound, Had cast to earth his diadem; His fractured limbs had delved the ground.
He lay, and still to fancy groan'd; He lay like Alfred when he died-- Alfred, a king by Heaven enthroned, His age's wonder, England's pride! Monarch of forests, great as good, Wise as the sage,--thou heart of steel! Thy name shall rouse the patriot's blood As long as England's sons can feel.
From every lawn, and copse, and glade, The timid deer in squadrons came, And circled round their fallen shade With all of language but its name. Astonishment and dread withheld The fawn and doe of tender years, But soon a triple circle swell'd, With rattling horns and twinkling ears.
Some in his root's deep cavern housed, And seem'd to learn, and muse, and teach, Or on his topmost foliage browsed, That had for centuries mock'd their reach. Winds in their wrath these limbs could crash, This strength, this symmetry could mar; A people's wrath can monarchs dash From bigot throne or purple car.
When Fate's dread bolt in Clermont's bowers Provoked its million tears and sighs, A nation wept its fallen flowers, Its blighted hopes, its darling prize.-- So mourn'd my antler'd friends awhile, So dark, so dread, the fateful day; So mourn'd the herd that knew no guile, Then turn'd disconsolate away!
Who then of language will be proud? Who arrogate that gift of heaven? To wild herds when they bellow loud, To all the forest-tribes 'tis given. I've heard a note from dale or hill That lifted every head and eye; I've heard a scream aloft, so shrill That terror seized on all that fly.
Empires may fall, and nations groan, Pride be thrown down, and power decay; Dark bigotry may rear her throne, But science is the light of day. Yet, while so low my lot is cast, Through wilds and forests let me range; My joys shall pomp and power outlast-- The voice of nature cannot change.
* * * * *
A soberer feeling through the crowd he flung, Clermont was uppermost on every tongue; But who can live on unavailing sighs? The inconsolable are not the wise. Spirit, and youth, and worth, demand a tear-- That day was past, and sorrow was not here; Sorrow the contest dared not but refuse 'Gainst Oakly's open cellar and the muse.
Sir Ambrose cast his eye along the line, Where many a cheerful face began to shine, And, fixing on his man, cried, loud and clear, "What have you brought, John Armstrong? let us hear." Forth stepp'd his shepherd;--scanty locks of grey Edged round a hat that seem'd to mock decay; Its loops, its bands, were from the purest fleece, Spun on the hills in silence and in peace. A staff he bore carved round with birds and flowers, The hieroglyphics of his leisure hours; And rough form'd animals of various name, Not just like BEWICK'S, but they meant the same. Nor these alone his whole attention drew, He was a poet,--this Sir Ambrose knew,-- A strange one too;--and now had penn'd a lay, Harmless and wild, and fitting for the day. No tragic tale on stilts;--his mind had more Of boundless frolic than of serious lore;-- Down went his hat, his shaggy friend close by Dozed on the grass, yet watch'd his master's eye.
THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM:
OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE.
THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM: OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE.
I had folded my flock, and my heart was o'erflowing, I loiter'd beside the small lake on the heath; The red sun, though down, left his drapery glowing, And no sound was stirring, I heard not a breath: I sat on the turf, but I meant not to sleep, And gazed o'er that lake which for ever is new, Where clouds over clouds appear'd anxious to peep From this bright double sky with its pearl and its blue.
Forgetfulness, rather than slumber, it seem'd, When in infinite thousands the fairies arose All over the heath, and their tiny crests gleam'd In mock'ry of soldiers, our friends and our foes. There a stripling went forth, half a finger's length high, And led a huge host to the north with a dash; Silver birds upon poles went before their wild cry, While the monarch look'd forward, adjusting his sash.
Soon after a terrible bonfire was seen, The dwellings of fairies went down in their ire, But from all I remember, I never could glean Why the woodstack was burnt, or who set it on fire. The flames seem'd to rise o'er a deluge of snow, That buried its thousands,--the rest ran away; For the hero had here overstrain'd his long bow, Yet he honestly own'd the mishap of the day.
Then the fays of the north like a hailstorm came on, And follow'd him down to the lake in a riot, Where they found a large stone which they fix'd him upon, And threaten'd, and coax'd him, and bade him be quiet. He that couquer'd them all, was to conquer no more, But the million beheld he could conquer alone; After resting awhile, he leap'd boldly on shore, When away ran a fay that had mounted his throne.
'Twas pleasant to see how they stared, how they scamper'd, By furze-bush, by fern, by no obstacle stay'd, And the few that held council, were terribly hamper'd, For some were vindictive, and some were afraid. I saw they were dress'd for a masquerade train, Colour'd rags upon sticks they all brandish'd in view, And of such idle things they seem'd mightily vain, Though they nothing display'd but a bird split in two.
Then out rush'd the stripling in battle array, And both sides determined to fight and to maul: Death rattled his jawbones to see such a fray, And glory personified laugh'd at them all. Here he fail'd,--hence he fled, with a few for his sake, And leap'd into a cockle-shell floating hard by; It sail'd to an isle in the midst of the lake, Where they mock'd fallen greatness, and left him to die.
Meanwhile the north fairies stood round in a ring, Supporting his rival on guns and on spears, Who, though not a soldier, was robed like a king; Yet some were exulting, and some were in tears. A lily triumphantly floated above, The crowd press'd, and wrangling was heard through the whole; Some soldiers look'd surly, some citizens strove To hoist the old nightcap on liberty's pole.
But methought in my dream some bewail'd him that fell, And liked not his victors so gallant, so clever, Till a fairy stepp'd forward, and blew through a shell, "Bear misfortune with firmness, you'll triumph for ever." I woke at the sound, all in silence, alone, The moor-hens were floating like specks on a glass, The dun clouds were spreading, the vision was gone, And my dog scamper'd round 'midst the dew on the grass.
I took up my staff, as a knight would his lance, And said, "Here 's my sceptre, my baton, my spear, And there's my prime minister far in advance, Who serves me with truth for his food by the year." So I slept without care till the dawning of day, Then trimm'd up my woodbines and whistled amain; My minister heard as he bounded away, And we led forth our sheep to their pastures again.
Scorch'd by the shadeless sun on Indian plains, Mellow'd by age, by wants, and toils, and pains, Those toils still lengthen'd when he reach'd that shore Where Spain's bright mountains heard the cannons roar, A pension'd veteran, doom'd no more to roam, With glowing heart thus sung the joys of home.
THE SOLDIER'S HOME.
THE SOLDIER'S HOME.
My untried muse shall no high tone assume, Nor strut in arms;--farewell my cap and plume: Brief be my verse, a task within my power, I tell my feelings in one happy hour; But what an hour was that! when from the main I reach'd this lovely valley once again! A glorious harvest fill'd my eager sight, Half shock'd, half waving in a flood of light; On that poor cottage roof where I was born The sun look'd down as in life's early morn. I gazed around, but not a soul appear'd, I listen'd on the threshold, nothing heard; I call'd my father thrice, but no one came; It was not fear or grief that shook my frame, But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home, Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come. The door invitingly stood open wide, I shook my dust, and set my staff aside. How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, And take possession of my father's chair! Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appear'd the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before!--the same old clock Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, Caught the old dangling almanacks behind, And up they flew, like banners in the wind; Then gently, singly, down, down, down, they went, And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land:--that instant came A robin on the threshold; though so tame, At first he look'd distrustful, almost shy, And cast on me his coal-black stedfast eye, And seem'd to say (past friendship to renew) "Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" Through the room ranged the imprison'd humble bee, And bomb'd, and bounced, and straggled to be free, Dashing against the panes with sullen roar, That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor; That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy stray'd O'er undulating waves the broom had made, Reminding me of those of hideous forms That met us as we pass'd the _Cape of Storms_, Where high and loud they break, and peace comes never; They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever. But _here_ was peace, that peace which home can yield; The grasshopper, the partridge in the field, And ticking clock, were all at once become The substitutes for clarion, fife, and drum. While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still On beds of moss that spread the window sill, I deem'd no moss my eyes had ever seen Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, And guess'd some infant hand had placed it there, And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose, My heart felt every thing but calm repose; I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, But rose at once, and bursted into tears; Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, And thought upon the past with shame and pain; I raved at war and all its horrid cost, And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. On carnage, fire, and plunder, long I mused, And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard, One bespoke age, and one a child's appear'd.-- In stepp'd my father with convulsive start, And in an instant clasp'd me to his heart. Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid, And, stooping to the child, the old man said, "Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again, This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain." The child approach'd, and with her fingers light, Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.-- But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be? Happy old Soldier! what's the world to me?
* * * * *
Change is essential to the youthful heart, It cannot bound, it cannot act its part To one monotonous delight a slave; E'en the proud poet's lines become its grave: By innate buoyancy, by passion led, It acts instinctively, it will be fed.
A troop of country lasses paced the green, Tired of their seats, and anxious to be seen; They pass'd Sir Ambrose, turn'd, and pass'd again, Some lightly tripp'd, to make their meaning plain: The old man knew it well, the thoughts of youth Came o'er his mind like consciousness of truth, Or like a sunbeam through a lowering sky, It gave him youth again, and ecstacy; He joy'd to see them in this favourite spot, Who of fourscore, or fifty score, would not? He wink'd, he nodded, and then raised his hand,-- 'Twas seen and answer'd by the Oakly band. Forth leap'd the light of heart and light of heel, E'en stiff limb'd age the kindling joy could feel. They form'd, while yet the music started light; The grass beneath their feet was short and bright, Where thirty couple danced with all their might. The Forester caught lasses one by one, And twirl'd his glossy green against the sun; The Shepherd threw his doublet on the ground, And clapp'd his hands, and many a partner found: His hat-loops bursted in the jocund fray, And floated o'er his head like blooming May. Behind his heels his dog was barking loud, And threading all the mazes of the crowd; And had he boasted one had wagg'd his tail, And plainly said, "What can my master ail?" To which the Shepherd, had he been more cool, Had only said, "'Tis Oakly feast, you fool."
But where was Philip, he who danced so well? Had he retired, had pleasure broke her spell? No, he had yielded to a tend'rer bond, He sat beside his own sick Rosamond, Whose illness long deferr'd their wedding hour; She wept, and seem'd a lily in a shower; She wept to see him 'midst a crowd so gay, For her sake lose the honours of the day. But could a gentle youth be so unkind? Would Philip dance, and leave his girl behind? She in her bosom hid a written prize, Inestimably rich in Philip's eyes; The warm effusion of a heart that glow'd With joy, with love, and hope by Heaven bestow'd. He woo'd, he soothed, and every art assay'd, To hush the scruples of the bashful maid, Drawing, at length, against her weak command, Reluctantly the treasure from her hand: And would have read, but passion chain'd his tongue, He turn'd aside, and down the ballad flung; And paused so long from feeling and from shame, That old Sir Ambrose halloo'd him by name: "Bring it to me, my lad, and never fear, "I never blamed true love, or scorn'd a tear; "They well become us, e'en where branded most." He came, and made a proxy of his host, Who, as the dancers cooling join'd the throng, Eyed the fair writer as he read her song.
ROSAMOND'S SONG OF HOPE.
Sweet Hope, so oft my childhood's friend, I will believe thee still, For thou canst joy with sorrow blend, Where grief alone would kill.
When disappointments wrung my heart, Ill brook'd in tender years, Thou, like a sun, perform'dst thy part, And dried my infant tears.
When late I wore the bloom of health, And love had bound me fast, My buoyant heart would sigh by stealth For fear it might not last.
My sickness came, my bloom decay'd, But Philip still was by; And thou, sweet Hope, so kindly said, "He'll weep if thou should'st die."
Thou told'st me too, that genial Spring Would bring me health again; I feel its power, but cannot sing Its glories yet for pain.
But thou canst still my heart inspire, And Heaven can strength renew; I feel thy presence, holy fire! My Philip will be true.
* * * * *
All eyes were turn'd, all hearts with pity glow'd, The maid stood trembling, and the lover bow'd As rose around them, while she dried her tears, "Long life to Rosamond, and happy years!"
Scarce had the voices ceased, when forth there came Another candidate for village fame: By gratitude to Heaven, by honest pride, Impell'd to rise and cast his doubts aside, A sturdy yeoman, button'd to the throat, Faced the whole ring, and shook his leathern coat. "I have a tale of private life to tell, "'Tis all of self and home, I know it well; "In love and honour's cause I would be strong, "Mine is a father's tale, perhaps too long, "For fathers, when a duteous child's the theme, "Can talk a summer's sun down, and then dream "Of retrospective joys with hearts that glow "With feelings such as parents only know."
ALFRED AND JENNET.
Yes, let me tell of Jennet, my last child; In her the charms of all the rest ran wild, And sprouted as they pleased. Still by my side, I own she was my favourite, was my pride, Since first she labour'd round my neck to twine, Or clasp'd both little hands in one of mine: And when the season broke, I've seen her bring Lapfuls of flowers, and then the girl would sing Whole songs, and halves, and bits, O, with such glee! If playmates found a favourite, it was she. Her lively spirit lifted her to joy; To distance in the race a clumsy boy Would raise the flush of conquest in her eye, And all was dance, and laugh, and liberty. Yet not hard-hearted, take me right, I beg, The veriest romp that ever wagg'd a leg Was Jennet; but when pity soothed her mind, Prompt with her tears, and delicately kind. The half-fledged nestling, rabbit, mouse, or dove, By turns engaged her cares and infant love; And many a one, at the last doubtful strife, Warm'd in her bosom, started into life.
At thirteen she was all that Heaven could send, My nurse, my faithful clerk, my lively friend; Last at my pillow when I sunk to sleep, First on my threshold soon as day could peep: I heard her happy to her heart's desire, With clanking pattens, and a roaring fire.
Then, having store of new-laid eggs to spare, She fill'd her basket with the simple fare, And weekly trudged (I think I see her still) To sell them at yon house upon the hill. Oft have I watch'd her as she stroll'd along, Heard the gate bang, and heard her morning song; And, as my warm ungovern'd feelings rose, Said to myself, "Heaven bless her! there she goes." Long would she tarry, and then dancing home, Tell how the lady bade her oft'ner come, And bade her talk and laugh without control; For Jennet's voice was music to the soul, My tale shall prove it:--For there dwelt a son, An only child, and where there is but one, Indulgence like a mildew reigns, from whence Mischief may follow if that child wants sense. But Alfred was a youth of noble mind, With ardent passions, and with taste refined; All that could please still courted heart and hand, Music, joy, peace, and wealth, at his command; Wealth, which his widow'd mother deem'd his own; Except the poor, she lived for him alone. Yet would she weep by stealth when he was near, But check'd all sighs to spare his wounded ear; For from his cradle he had never seen Soul-cheering sunbeams, or wild nature's green. But all life's blessings centre not in sight; For Providence, that dealt him one long night, Had given, in pity to the blooming boy, Feelings more exquisitely tuned to joy. Fond to excess was he of all that grew; The morning blossom sprinkled o'er with dew, Across his path, as if in playful freak, Would dash his brow, and weep upon his cheek; Each varying leaf that brush'd where'er he came, Press'd to his rosy lip he call'd by name; He grasp'd the saplings, measured every bough, Inhaled the fragrance that the spring months throw Profusely round, till his young heart confess'd That all was beauty, and himself was bless'd. Yet when he traced the wide extended plain, Or clear brook side, he felt a transient pain; The keen regret of goodness, void of pride, To think he could not roam without a guide.
Who, guess ye, knew these scenes of home delight Better than Jennet, bless'd with health and sight? Whene'er she came, he from his sports would slide, And catch her wild laugh, listening by her side; Mount to the tell-tale clock with ardent spring, And _feel_ the passing hour, then fondly cling To Jennet's arm, and tell how sweet the breath Of bright May-mornings on the open heath; Then off they started, rambling far and wide, Like Cupid with a wood-nymph by his side.
Thus months and months roll'd on, the summer pass'd, And the long darkness, and the winter blast, Sever'd the pair; no flowery fields to roam, Poor Alfred sought his music and his home. What wonder then if inwardly he pined? The anxious mother mark'd her stripling's mind Gloomy and sad, yet striving to be gay As the long tedious evenings pass'd away: 'Twas her delight fresh spirits to supply.-- My girl was sent for--just for company.
A tender governess my daughter found, Her temper placid, her instruction sound; Plain were her precepts, full of strength, their power Was founded on the practice of the hour: Theirs were the happy nights to peace resign'd, With ample means to cheer th' unbended mind. The Sacred History, or the volumes fraught With tenderest sympathy, or towering thought, The laughter-stirring tale, the moral lay, All that brings dawning reason into day. There Jennet learn'd by maps, through every land To travel, and to name them at command; Would tell how great their strength, their bounds how far, And show where uncle Charles was in the war. The globe she managed with a timid hand, Told which was ocean, which was solid land, And said, whate'er their diff'rent climates bore, All still roll'd round, though that I knew before.