Part 4

Then might peep the morn, in vain, Through the rimy misted pane; Then might bawl the restless cock, And the loud-tongued village clock; And the flail might lump away, Waking soon the dreary day: They should never waken me, Independent, blest, and free; Nor, as usual, make me start, Yawning sigh with heavy heart, Loth to ope my sleepy eyes, Weary still, in pain to rise, With aching bones and heavy head, Worse than when I went to bed. With nothing then to raise a sigh, Oh, how happy should I lie Till the clock was eight, or more, Then proceed as heretofore. Best of blessings! sweetest charm! Boon these wishes while they’re warm; My fairy visions ne’er despise; As reason thinks, thou realize: Depress’d with want and poverty I sink, I fall, denied by thee.

NOON

All how silent and how still; Nothing heard but yonder mill: While the dazzled eye surveys All around a liquid blaze; And amid the scorching gleams, If we earnest look, it seems As if crooked bits of glass Seem’d repeatedly to pass. Oh, for a puffing breeze to blow! But breezes are all strangers now; Not a twig is seen to shake, Nor the smallest bent to quake; From the river’s muddy side Not a curve is seen to glide; And no longer on the stream Watching lies the silver bream, Forcing, from repeated springs, “Verges in successive rings.” Bees are faint, and cease to hum; Birds are overpower’d and dumb. Rural voices all are mute, Tuneless lie the pipe and flute: Shepherds, with their panting sheep, In the swaliest corner creep; And from the tormenting heat All are wishing to retreat. Huddled up in grass and flowers, Mowers wait for cooler hours; And the cow-boy seeks the sedge, Ramping in the woodland hedge, While his cattle o’er the vales Scamper, with uplifted tails; Others not so wild and mad, That can better bear the gad, Underneath the hedge-row lunge, Or, if nigh, in waters plunge. Oh! to see how flowers are took, How it grieves me when I look: Ragged-robins, once so pink, Now are turn’d as black as ink, And the leaves, being scorch’d so much, Even crumble at the touch; Drowking lies the meadow-sweet, Flopping down beneath one’s feet While to all the flowers that blow, If in open air they grow, Th’ injurious deed alike is done By the hot relentless sun. E’en the dew is parched up From the teasel’s jointed cup: O poor birds! where must ye fly, Now your water-pots are dry? If ye stay upon the heath, Ye’ll be choak’d and clamm’d to death: Therefore leave the shadeless goss, Seek the spring-head lin’d with moss; There your little feet may stand, Safely printing on the sand; While, in full possession, where Purling eddies ripple clear, You with ease and plenty blest, Sip the coolest and the best. Then away! and wet your throats; Cheer me with your warbling notes: T’will hot noon the more revive; While I wander to contrive For myself a place as good, In the middle of a wood: There aside some mossy bank, Where the grass in bunches rank Lifts its down on spindles high, Shall be where I’ll choose to lie; Fearless of the things that creep, There I’ll think, and there I’ll sleep; Caring not to stir at all, Till the dew begins to fall.

THE UNIVERSAL EPITAPH

No flattering praises daub my stone, My frailties and my faults to hide; My faults and failings all are known-- I liv’d in sin--in sin I died.

And oh! condemn me not, I pray, You who my sad confession view; But ask your soul, if it can say, That I’m a viler man than you.

THE HARVEST MORNING

Cocks wake the early morn with many a crow; Loud-striking village clock has counted four; The labouring rustic hears his restless foe, And weary, of his pains complaining sore, Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor: Some busy ’gin to teem the loaded corn, Which night throng’d round the barn’s becrowded door; Such plenteous scenes the farmer’s yard adorn, Such noisy, busy toils now mark the Harvest Morn.

The bird-boy’s pealing horn is loudly blow’d; The waggons jostle on with rattling sound; And hogs and geese now throng the dusty road, Grunting, and gabbling, in contention, round The barley ears that litter on the ground. What printing traces mark the waggon’s way; What busy bustling wakens echo round; How drive the sun’s warm beams the mist away; How labour sweats and toils, and dreads the sultry day!

His scythe the mower o’er his shoulder leans, And whetting, jars with sharp and tinkling sound; Then sweeps again ’mong corn and crackling beans, And swath by swath flops lengthening o’er the ground; While ’neath some friendly heap, snug shelter’d round From spoiling sun, lies hid the heart’s delight; And hearty soaks oft hand the bottle round, Their toils pursuing with redoubled might-- Great praise to him is due that brought its birth to light.

Upon the waggon now, with eager bound, The lusty picker whirls the rustling sheaves; Or, resting ponderous creaking fork aground, Boastful at once whole shocks of barley heaves: The loading boy revengeful inly grieves To find his unmatch’d strength and power decay; The barley horn his garments interweaves; Smarting and sweating ’neath the sultry day, With muttering curses stung, he mauls the heaps away.

A motley group the clearing field surround; Sons of Humanity, oh ne’er deny The humble gleaner entrance in your ground; Winter’s sad cold, and Poverty are nigh. Grudge not from Providence the scant supply: You’ll never miss it from your ample store. Who gives denial--harden’d, hungry hound,-- May never blessings crowd his hated door! But he shall never lack, that giveth to the poor.

Ah, lovely Emma! mingling with the rest, Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen, Thy rosy cheeks, thy sweetly swelling breast; But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean. O Poverty! how basely you demean The imprison’d worth your rigid fates confine: Not fancied charms of an Arcadian queen So sweet as Emma’s real beauties shine: Had Fortune blest, sweet girl, this lot had ne’er been thine.

The sun’s increasing heat now mounted high, Refreshment must recruit exhausted power; The waggon stops, the busy tool’s thrown by, And ’neath a shock’s enjoy’d the bevering hour. The bashful maid, sweet health’s engaging flower Lingering behind, o’er rake still blushing bends; And when to take the horn fond swains implore, With feign’d excuses its dislike pretends. So pass the bevering hours, so Harvest Morning ends.

O Rural Life! what charms thy meanness hide; What sweet descriptions bards disdain to sing; What loves, what graces on thy plains abide: Oh, could I soar me on the Muse’s wing, What rifled charms should my researches bring! Pleas’d would I wander where these charms reside; Of rural sports and beauties would I sing; Those beauties, Wealth, which you in vain deride, Beauties of richest bloom, superior to your pride.

ON AN INFANT’S GRAVE

Beneath the sod where smiling creep The daisies into view, The ashes of an Infant sleep, Whose soul’s as smiling too; Ah! doubly happy, doubly blest, (Had I so happy been!) Recall’d to heaven’s eternal rest, Ere it knew how to sin.

Thrice happy Infant! great the bliss Alone reserv’d for thee; Such joy ’twas my sad fate to miss, And thy good luck to see; For oh! when all must rise again, And sentence then shall have, What crowds will wish with me, in vain, They’d fill’d an infant’s grave.

TO AN APRIL DAISY

Welcome, old Comrade! peeping once again; Our meeting ’minds me of a pleasant hour: Spring’s pencil pinks thee in that blushy stain, And Summer glistens in thy tinty flower.

Hail, Beauty’s Gem! disdaining time nor place; Carelessly creeping on the dunghill’s side; Demeanour’s softness in thy crimpled face Decks thee in beauties unattain’d by pride.

Hail, ’Venturer! once again that fearless here Encampeth on the hoar hill’s sunny side; Spring’s early messenger! thou’rt doubly dear; And winter’s frost by thee is well supplied.

Now winter’s frowns shall cease their pelting rage, But winter’s woes I need not tell to thee; Far better luck thy visits well presage, And be it thine and mine that luck to see.

Ah, may thy smiles confirm the hopes they tell To see thee frost-bit I’d be griev’d at heart; I meet thee happy, and I wish thee well, Till ripening summer summons us to part.

Then like old mates, or two who’ve neighbours been, We’ll part, in hopes to meet another year; And o’er thy exit from this changing scene We’ll mix our wishes in a tokening tear.

SUMMER EVENING

The sinking sun is taking leave, And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve, While huddling clouds of purple dye Gloomy hang the western sky. Crows crowd croaking over-head, Hastening to the woods to bed. Cooing sits the lonely dove, Calling home her absent love. With “Kirchup! kirchup!” ’mong the wheats, Partridge distant partridge greets; Beckoning hints to those that roam, That guide the squander’d covey home. Swallows check their winding flight, And twittering on the chimney light. Round the pond the martins flirt, Their snowy breasts bedaub’d with dirt, While the mason, ’neath the slates, Each mortar-bearing bird awaits: By art untaught, each labouring spouse Curious daubs his hanging house. Bats flit by in hood and cowl; Through the barn-hole pops the owl; From the hedge, in drowsy hum, Heedless buzzing beetles bum, Haunting every bushy place, Flopping in the labourer’s face. Now the snail hath made his ring; And the moth with snowy wing Circles round in winding whirls, Through sweet evening’s sprinkled pearls On each nodding rush besprent; Dancing on from bent to bent: Now to downy grasses clung, Resting for a while he’s hung; Strong to ferry o’er the stream, Vanishing as flies a dream: Playful still his hours to keep, Till his time has come to sleep; In tall grass, by fountain-head, Weary then he drops to bed. From the hay-cock’s moisten’d heaps Startled frogs take vaunting leaps; And along the shaven mead, Jumping travellers, they proceed: Quick the dewy grass divides, Moistening sweet their speckled sides; From the grass or flowret’s cup, Quick the dew-drop bounces up. Now the blue fog creeps along, And the bird’s forgot his song: Flowers now sleep within their hoods; Daisies button into buds; From soiling dew the butter-cup Shuts his golden jewels up; And the rose and woodbine they Wait again the smiles of day. ’Neath the willow’s wavy boughs, Dolly, singing, milks hers cows; While the brook, as bubbling by, Joins in murmuring melody. Dick and Dob, with jostling joll, Homeward drag the rumbling roll; Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait, Lolls him o’er the pasture gate. Swains to fold their sheep begin; Dogs loud barking drive them in. Hedgers now along the road Homeward bend beneath their load; And from the long furrow’d seams, Ploughmen loose their weary teams: Ball, with urging lashes weal’d. Still so slow to drive a-field, Eager blundering from the plough, Wants no whip to drive him now; At the stable-door he stands, Looking round for friendly hands To loose the door its fast’ning pin, And let him with his corn begin. Round the yard, a thousand ways Beasts in expectation gaze, Catching at the loads of hay Passing fodd’rers tug away. Hogs with grumbling, deaf’ning noise Bother round the server boys; And, far and near, the motley group Anxious claim their suppering-up. From the rest, a blest release, Gabbling home, the quarrelling geese Seek their warm straw-litter’d shed, And, waddling, prate away to bed. ’Nighted by unseen delay, Poking hens, that lose their way, On the hovel’s rafters rise, Slumbering there, the fox’s prize. Now the cat has ta’en her seat, With her tail curl’d round her feet; Patiently she sits to watch Sparrows fighting on the thatch. Now Doll brings th’ expected pails. And dogs begin to wag their tails; With strokes and pats they’re welcom’d in And they with looking wants begin: Slove in the milk-pail brimming o’er, She pops their dish behind the door. Prone to mischief boys are met, ’Neath the eaves the ladder’s set, Sly they climb in softest tread, To catch the sparrow on his bed, Massacred, O cruel pride! Dash against the ladder’s side. Curst barbarians! pass me by: Come not, Turks, my cottage nigh; Sure my sparrow’s are my own, Let ye then my birds alone. Come poor birds! from foes severe Fearless come, you’re welcome here; My heart yearns at fate like yours, A sparrow’s life’s as sweet as ours. Hardy clowns! grudge not the wheat Which hunger forces birds to eat: Your blinded eyes, worst foes to you, Can’t see the good which sparrows do. Did not poor birds with watching rounds Pick up the insects from your grounds, Did they not tend your rising grain, You might then sow to reap in vain. Thus Providence, right understood, Whose end and aim is doing good, Sends nothing here without its use; Though ignorance loads it with abuse; And fools despise the blessing sent, And mock the Giver’s good intent-- O God! let me what’s good pursue, Let me the same to others do As I’d have others do to me, And learn at least humanity.

Dark and darker glooms the sky; Sleep ’gins close the labourer’s eye: Dobson leaves his greensward seat, Neighbours where they neighbours meet Crops to praise and work in hand, And battles tell from foreign land. While his pipe is puffing out, Sue he’s putting to the rout, Gossiping, who takes delight To shool her knitting out at night, And back-bite neighbours ’bout the town-- Who’s got new caps, and who a gown, And many a thing, her evil eye Can see they don’t come honest by. Chattering at a neighbour’s house, She hears call out her frowning spouse Prepar’d to start, she soodles home, Her knitting twirling o’er her thumb, As, loth to leave, afraid to stay, She bawls her story all the way: The tale so fraught with ’ticing charms. Her apron folded o’er her arms, She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain, To end as evening comes again; And in the cottage gangs with dread To meet old Dobson’s timely frown, Who grumbling sits, prepar’d for bed, While she stands chelping ’bout the town.

The night-wind now, with sooty wings, In the cotter’s chimney sings; Now, as stretching o’er the bed, Soft I raise my drowsy head, Listening to the ushering charms That shake the elm tree’s mossy arms; Till sweet slumbers stronger creep, Deeper darkness stealing round, Then, as rock’d, I sink to sleep, ’Mid the wild wind’s lulling sound.

PATTY

Ye swampy falls of pasture ground, And rushy spreading greens; Ye rising swells in brambles bound, And freedom’s wilder’d scenes; I’ve trod ye oft, and love ye dear, And kind was fate to let me; On you I found my all, for here ’Twas first my Patty met me.

Flow on, thou gently plashing stream, O’er weed-beds wild and rank; Delighted I’ve enjoy’d my dream Upon thy mossy bank: Bemoistening many a weedy stem, I’ve watched thee wind so clearly; And on thy bank I found the gem That makes me love thee dearly.

Thou wilderness, so rudely gay; Oft as I seek thy plain, Oft as I wend my steps away, And meet my joys again, And brush the weaving branches by Of briars and thorns so matty; So oft Reflection warms a sigh,-- Here first I meet my Patty.

PATTY OF THE VALE

Where lonesome woodlands close surrounding Mark the spot a solitude, And nature’s uncheck’d scenes abounding Form a prospect wild and rude, A cottage cheers the spot so glooming, Hid in the hollow of the dale, Where, in youth and beauty blooming Lives sweet Patty of the Vale.

Gay as the lambs her cot surrounding, Sporting wild the shades among, O’er the hills and bushes bounding, Artless, innocent, and young, Fresh, as blush of morning roses Ere the mid-day suns prevail, Fair as lily-bud uncloses, Blooms sweet Patty of the Vale.

Low and humble though her station, Dress though mean she’s doom’d to wear, Few superiors in the nation With her beauty can compare. What are riches?--not worth naming, Though with some they may prevail; Their’s be choice of wealth proclaiming, Mine is Patty of the Vale.

Fools may fancy wealth and fortune Join to make a happy pair, And for such the god importune, With full many a fruitless prayer: I, their pride and wealth disdaining Should my humble hopes prevail, Happy then, would cease complaining, Blest with Patty of the Vale.

MY LOVE, THOU ART A NOSEGAY SWEET

My love, thou art a nosegay sweet, My sweetest flower I prove thee; And pleas’d I pin thee to my breast, And dearly do I love thee.

And when, my nosegay, thou shalt fade, As sweet a flower thou’lt prove thee; And as thou witherest on my breast, For beauty past I’ll love thee.

And when, my nosegay, thou shalt die, And heaven’s flower shalt prove thee; My hopes shall follow to the sky, And everlasting love thee.

THE MEETING

Here we meet, too soon to part, Here to leave will raise a smart, Here I’ll press thee to my heart, Where none have place above thee: Here I vow to love thee well, And could words unseal the spell, Had but language strength to tell, I’d say how much I love thee.

Here, the rose that decks thy door, Here, the thorn that spreads thy bow’r, Here, the willow on the moor, The birds at rest above thee, Had they light of life to see, Sense of soul like thee and me, Soon might each a witness be How doatingly I love thee.

By the night-sky’s purple ether, And by even’s sweetest weather, That oft has blest us both together,-- The moon that shines above thee, And shews thy beauteous cheek so blooming, And by pale age’s winter coming, The charms, and casualties of woman, I will for ever love thee.

EFFUSION

Ah, little did I think in time that’s past, By summer burnt, or numb’d by winter’s blast, Delving the ditch a livelihood to earn, Or lumping corn out in a dusty barn; With aching bones returning home at night, And sitting down with weary hand to write; Ah, little did I think, as then unknown, Those artless rhymes I even blush’d to own Would be one day applauded and approv’d, By learning notic’d, and by genius lov’d. God knows, my hopes were many, but my pain Damp’d all the prospects which I hop’d to gain; I hardly dar’d to hope.--Thou corner-chair, In which I’ve oft slung back in deep despair, Hadst thou expression, thou couldst easy tell The pains and all that I have known too well: ’Twould be but sorrow’s tale, yet still ’twould be A tale of truth, and passing sweet to me. How oft upon my hand I’ve laid my head, And thought how poverty deform’d our shed; Look’d on each parent’s face I fain had cheer’d Where sorrow triumph’d, and pale want appear’d; And sigh’d, and hop’d, and wish’d some day would come, When I might bring a blessing to their home,-- That toil and merit comforts had in store, To bid the tear defile their cheeks no more. Who that has feelings would not wish to be A friend to parents, such as mine to me, Who in distress broke their last crust in twain, And though want pinch’d, the remnant broke again, And still, if craving of their scanty bread, Gave their last mouthful that I might be fed? Nor for their own wants tear-drops follow’d free, Worse anguish stung--they had no more for me, And now hope’s sun is looking brighter out, And spreading thin the clouds of fear and doubt, That long in gloomy sad suspense to me Hid the long-waited smiles I wish’d to see. And now, my parents, helping you is sweet,-- The rudest havoc fortune could complete; A piteous couple, little blest with friends, Where pain and poverty have had their ends. I’ll be thy crutch, my father, lean on me; Weakness knits stubborn while its bearing thee; And hard shall fall the shock of fortune’s frown To eke thy sorrows, ere it breaks me down. My mother, too, thy kindness shall be met, And ere I’m able will I pay the debt; For what thou’st done, and what gone through for me, My last-earn’d sixpence will I break with thee: And when my dwindled sum won’t more divide, Then take it all--to fate I’ll leave the rest; In helping thee I’ll always feel a pride, Nor think I’m happy till ye both are blest.

BALLAD

A weedling wild, on lonely lea, My evening rambles chanc’d to see; And much the weedling tempted me To crop its tender flower: Expos’d to wind and heavy rain, Its head bow’d lowly on the plain; And silently it seem’d in pain Of life’s endanger’d hour.

“And wilt thou bid my bloom decay, And crop my flower, and me betray? And cast my injur’d sweets away,”-- Its silence seemly sigh’d-- “A moment’s idol of thy mind? And is a stranger so unkind, To leave a shameful root behind, Bereft of all its pride?”

And so it seemly did complain; And beating fell the heavy rain; And how it droop’d upon the plain, To fate resign’d to fall: My heart did melt at its decline, And “Come,” said I, “thou gem divine, My fate shall stand the storm with thine:” So took the root and all.

SONG

One gloomy eve I roam’d about ’Neath Oxey’s hazel bowers, While timid hares were darting out, To crop the dewy flowers; And soothing was the scene to me, Right pleased was my soul, My breast was calm as summer’s sea When waves forget to roll.

But short was even’s placid smile, My startled soul to charm, When Nelly lightly skipt the stile, With milk-pail on her arm: One careless look on me she flung, As bright as parting day: And like a hawk from covert sprung, It pounc’d my peace away.

THE GIPSY’S CAMP