Part 5

How oft on Sundays, when I’d time to tramp, My rambles led me to a gipsy’s camp, Where the real effigy of midnight hags, With tawny smoked flesh and tatter’d rags, Uncouth-brimm’d hat, and weather-beaten cloak, ’Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak, Along the greensward uniforming pricks Her pliant bending hazel’s arching sticks; While round-topt bush or briar-entangled hedge, Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge, Keep off the bothering bustle of the wind, And give the best retreat she hopes to find. How oft I’ve bent me o’er her fire and smoke, To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke, While the old Sybil forg’d her boding clack, Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back; Oft on my hand her magic coin’s been struck, And hoping chink, she talk’d of morts of luck: And still, as boyish hopes did first agree, Mingled with fears to drop the fortune’s fee, I never fail’d to gain the honours sought, And Squire and Lord were purchas’d with a groat. But as man’s unbelieving taste came round, She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground, Wip’d bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist, While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist, Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate, Which like as footboys on her actions wait, That fortune’s scale should to my sorrow turn And I one day the rash neglect should mourn; That good to bad should change, and I should be Lost to this world and all eternity; That poor as Job I should remain unblest;-- (Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!) Of not a hoarded farthing be possest, And when all’s done, be shov’d to hell at last!

TO THE CLOUDS

O painted clouds! sweet beauties of the sky, How have I view’d your motion and your rest When like fleet hunters ye have left mine eye, In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest; Or in your threaten’d thunder’s grave black vest, Like black deep waters slowly moving by, Awfully striking the spectator’s breast With your Creator’s dread sublimity, As admiration mutely views your storms. And I do love to see you idly lie, Painted by heav’n as various as your forms, Pausing upon the eastern mountain high, As morn awakes with spring’s wood-harmony; And sweeter still, when in your slumbers sooth You hang the western arch o’er day’s proud eye: Still as the even-pool, uncurv’d and smooth, My gazing soul has look’d most placidly; And higher still devoutly wish’d to strain, To wipe your shrouds and sky’s blue blinders by, With all the warmness of a moon-struck brain,-- To catch a glimpse of Him who bids you reign, And view the dwelling of all majesty.

THE WOODMAN

DEDICATED TO THE REV. J. KNOWLES HOLLAND.

The beating snow-clad bell, with sounding dead, Hath clanked four--the woodman’s wak’d again; And, as he leaves his comfortable bed, Dithers to view the rimy feather’d pane, And shrugs, and wishes--but ’tis all in vain: The bed’s warm comforts he most now forego; His family that oft till eight hath lain, Without his labour’s wage could not do so. And glad to make them blest he shuffles through the snow.

The early winter’s morn is dark as pitch, The wary wife from tinder brought at night With flint and steel, and may a sturdy twitch, Sits up in bed to strike her man a light; And as the candle shows the rapturous sight, Aside his wife his rosy sleeping boy, He smacks his lips with exquisite delight, With all a father’s feelings, father’s joy, Then bids his wife good-bye, and hies to his employ. His breakfast water-porridge, humble food; A barley-crust he in his wallet flings; On this he toils and labours in the wood, And chops his faggot, twists his band, and sings, As happily as princes and as kings With all their luxury:--and blest is he, Can but the little which his labour brings Make both ends meet, and from long debts keep free, And neat and clean preserve his numerous family.

Far o’er the dreary fields the woodland lies, Rough is the journey which he daily goes; The woolly clouds, that hang the frowning skies, Keep winnowing down their drifting sleet and snows, And thro’ his doublet keen the north wind blows; While hard as iron the cemented ground, And smooth as glass the glibbed pool is froze; His nailed boots with clenching tread rebound, And dithering echo starts and mocks the clamping sound.

The woods how gloomy in a winter’s morn! The crows and ravens even cease to croak, The little birds sit chittering on the thorn, The pies scarce chatter when they leave the oak, Startled from slumber by the woodman’s stroke; The milk-maid’s song is drown’d in gloomy care, And while the village chimneys curl their smoke, She milks, and blows, and hastens to be there; And nature all seems sad, and dying in despair.

The quirking rabbit scarcely leaves her hole, But rolls in torpid slumbers all the day; The fox is loth to ’gin a long patrol, And scouts the woods, content with meaner prey; The hare so frisking, timid once and gay, ’Hind the dead thistle hurkles from the view, Nor scarce is scar’d though in the traveller’s way, Though waffling curs and shepherd-dogs pursue: So winter’s ragged power affects all nature through.

What different changes winter’s frowns supply: The clown no more a loitering hour beguiles, Nor gaping tracks the clouds along the sky, As when buds blossom, and the warm sun smiles, And “Lawrence wages bids” on hills and stiles; Banks, stiles, and flowers, and skies, no longer charm; Deep drifting snow each summer-seat defiles; With hasty blundering step and folded arm He glad the stable seeks, his frost-nip nose to warm. The shepherd haunts no more his spreading oak, Nor on the sloping pond-head lies at lair; The arbour he once wattled up is broke, And left unworthy of his future care; The ragged plundering stickers have been there, And pilfer’d it away; he passes by His summer dwelling, desolate and bare, And ne’er so much as turns a conscious eye, But gladly seeks his fire, and shuns th’ inclement sky.

The scene is cloth’d in snow from morn till night, The woodman’s loth his chilly tools to seize; The crows unroosting as he comes in sight Shake down the feathery burden from the trees; To look at things around he’s fit to freeze: Scar’d from her perch the fluttering pheasant flies: His hat and doublet whiten by degrees, He quakes, looks round, and pats his hands and sighs, And wishes to himself that the warm sun would rise.

The robin, tamest of the feather’d race, Soon as he hears the woodman’s sounding chops, With ruddy bosom and a simple face Around his old companion fearless hops, And there for hours in pleas’d attention stops: The woodman’s heart is tender and humane And at his meals he many a crumble drops. Thanks to thy generous feelings, gentle swain; And what thy pity gives, shall not be given in vain.

The woodman gladly views the closing day, To see the sun drop down behind the wood, Sinking in clouds deep blue or misty grey, Round as a football and as red as blood: The pleasing prospect does his heart much good, Though ’tis not his such beauties to admire; He hastes to fill his bags with billet-wood, Well-pleas’d from the chill prospect to retire, To seek his corner chair, and warm snug cottage fire.

And soon as dusky even hovers round, And the white frost ’gins crizzle pond and brook, The little family are glimpsing round, And from the door dart many a wistful look; The supper’s ready stewing on the hook: And every foot that clampers down the street Is for the coming father’s step mistook; O’erjoy’d are they when he their eyes doth meet, Bent ’neath his load, snow-clad, as white as any sheet.

I think I see him seated in his chair, Taking the bellows up the fire to blow; I think I hear him joke and chatter there, Telling his children news they wish to know; With leather leggings on, that stopt the snow, And broad-brimm’d hat uncouthly shapen round: Nor would he, I’ll be bound, if it were so, Give twopence for the chance, could it be found, At that same hour to be the king of England crown’d.

The woodman smokes, the brats in mirth and glee, And artless prattle, even’s hour beguile, While love’s last pledge runs scrambling up his knee, The nightly comfort from his weary toil, His chuff cheeks dimpling in a fondling smile; He claims his kiss, and says his scraps of prayer; Begging his daddy’s pretty song the while, Playing with his jacket-buttons and his hair;-- And thus in wedlock’s joys the labourer drowns his care.

And as most labourers knowingly pretend By certain signs to judge the weather right, As oft from “Noah’s ark” great floods descend, And “buried moons” foretell great storms at night, In such-like things the woodman took delight; And ere he went to bed would always ken Whether the sky was gloom’d or stars shone bright, Then went to comfort’s arms till morn, and then As cheery as the sun resum’d his toils agen.

And ere he slept he always breath’d a prayer, “I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou to-day didst give Sufficient strength to toil; and blest Thy care, And thank Thee still for what I may receive: And, O Almighty God! while I still live, Ere my eyes open on the last day’s sun, Prepare Thou me this wicked world to leave, And fit my passage ere my race is run; ’Tis all I beg, O Lord! Thy heavenly will be done.”

Holland; to thee this humble ballad’s sent, Who for the poor man’s welfare oft hast pray’d; Whose tongue did ne’er belie its good intent, Preacher, as well in practice, as in trade-- Alas, too often money’s business made! O may the wretch, that’s still in darkness living, The Bible’s comforts hear by thee display’d; And many a woodman’s family, forgiven, Have cause for blessing thee that led their way to heaven.

RURAL EVENING

The sun now sinks behind the woodland green, And twittering spangles glow the leaves between, So bright and dazzling on the eye it plays As if noon’s heat had kindled to a blaze, But soon it dims in red and heavier hues, And shows wild fancy cheated in her views. A mist-like moisture rises from the ground, And deeper blueness stains the distant round. The eye each moment, as it gazes o’er, Still loses objects which it mark’d before; The woods at distance changing like to clouds, And spire-points croodling under evening’s shrouds; Till forms of things, and hues of leaf and flower, In deeper shadows, as by magic power, With light and all, in scarce-perceiv’d decay, Put on mild evening’s sober garb of grey.

Now in the sleepy gloom that blackens round Dies many a lulling hum of rural sound, From cottage door, farm-yard and dusty lane, Where home the cart-house tolters with the swain. Or padded holm, where village boys resort, Bawling enraptur’d o’er their evening sport, Till night awakens superstition’s dread And drives them prisoners to a restless bed. Thrice happy eve of days no more to me! Whoever thought such change belong’d to thee? When, like to boys whom now thy gloom surrounds, I chas’d the stag, or play’d at fox-and-hounds, Or wander’d down the lane with many a mate To play at see-saw on the pasture-gate, Or on the threshold of some cottage sat To watch the flittings of the shrieking bat, Who, seemly pleas’d to mock our treacherous view, Would even swoop and touch us as he flew, And vainly still our hopes to entertain Would stint his route, and circle us again,-- Till, wearied out with many a coaxing call Which boyish superstition loves to bawl, His shrill song shrieking he betook to flight, And left us puzzled in short-sighted night. Those days have fled me, as from them they steal: And I’ve felt losses they must shortly feel; But sure such ends make every bosom sore, To think of pleasures we must meet no more.

Now from the pasture milking-maidens come, With each a swain to bear the burden home, Who often coax them on their pleasant way To soodle longer out in love’s delay; While on a mole-hill, or a resting stile, The simple rustics try their arts the while With glegging smiles, and hopes and fears between, Snatching a kiss to open what they mean: And all the utmost that their tongues can do, The honey’d words which nature learns to woo, The wild-flower sweets of language, “love” and “dear,” With warmest utterings meet each maiden’s ear; Who as by magic smit, she knows not why, From the warm look that waits a wish’d reply Droops fearful down in love’s delightful swoon As slinks the blossom from the suns of noon; While sighs half-smother’d from the throbbing breast, And broken words sweet trembling o’er the rest, And cheeks, in blushes burning, turn’d aside, Betray the plainer what she strives to hide. The amorous swain sees through the feign’d disguise, Discerns the fondness she at first denies, And with all passions love and truth can move Urges more strong the simpering maid to love; More freely using toying ways to win-- Tokens that echo from the soul within-- Her soft hand nipping, that with ardour burns, And, timid, gentlier presses its returns; Then stealing pins with innocent deceit, To loose the ’kerchief from its envied seat; Then unawares her bonnet he’ll untie, Her dark-brown ringlets wiping gently by, To steal a kiss in seemly feign’d disguise, As love yields kinder taken by surprise: While nearly conquer’d she less disapproves, And owns at last, mid tears and sighs, she loves. With sweetest feelings that this world bestows Now each to each their inmost souls disclose, Vow to be true; and to be truly ta’en, Repeat their loves, and vow it o’er again; And pause at loss of language to proclaim Those purest pleasures, yet without a name: And while, in highest ecstacy of bliss The shepherd holds her yielding hand in his He turns to heaven to witness what he feels, And silent shows what want of words conceals; Then ere the parting moments hustle nigh, And night in deeper dye his curtain dips, Till next day’s evening glads the anxious eye, He swears his truth, and seals it on her lips.

At even’s hour, the truce of toil, ’tis sweet The sons of labour at their ease to meet, On piled bench, beside the cottage door, Made up of mud and stones and sodded o’er; Where rustic taste at leisure trimly weaves The rose and straggling woodbine to the eaves,-- And on the crowded spot that pales enclose The white and scarlet daisy rears in rows,-- Training the trailing peas in bunches neat, Perfuming evening with a luscious sweet,-- And sun-flowers planting for their gilded show, That scale the window’s lattice ere they blow, Then sweet to habitants within the sheds, Peep through the diamond pane their golden heads: Or at the shop where ploughs and harrows lie, Well-known to every child that passes by From shining fragments littering on the floor; And branded letter burnt upon the door, Where meddling boys, the torment of the street, In hard-burnt cinders ready weapons meet, To pelt the martins ’neath the eves at rest That oft are wak’d to mourn a ruin’d nest; Or sparrows, that delight their nests to leave, In dust to flutter at the cool of eve. For such-like scenes the gossip leaves her home, And sons of labour light their pipes, and come To talk of wages, whether high or low, And mumble news that still as secrets go; When, heedless then to all the rest may say, The beckoning lover nods the maid away, And at a distance many an hour they seem In jealous whisperings o’er their pleasing theme; While children round them teasing sports prolong, To twirl the top, or bounce the hoop along, Or shout across the street their “one catch all,” Or prog the hous’d bee from the cotter’s wall.

Now at the parish cottage wall’d with dirt, Where all the cumber-grounds of life resort, From the low door that bows two props between, Some feeble tottering dame surveys the scene; By them reminded of the long-lost day When she herself was young, and went to play; And, turning to the painful scenes again, The mournful changes she has meet since then, Her aching heart, the contrast moves so keen, E’en sighs a wish that life had never been. Still vainly sinning, while she strives to pray, Half-smother’d discontent pursues its way In whispering Providence, how blest she’d been If life’s last troubles she’d escap’d unseen; If, ere want sneak’d for grudg’d support from pride, She had but shar’d of childhood’s joys, and died. And as to talk some passing neighbours stand, And shove their box within her tottering hand, She turns from echoes of her younger years, And nips the portion of her snuff with tears.

RUSTIC FISHING

On Sunday mornings, freed from hard employ, How oft I mark the mischievous young boy With anxious haste his pole and lines provide, For make-shifts oft crook’d pins to thread were tied; And delve his knife with wishes ever warm In rotten dunghills for the grub and worm, The harmless treachery of his hooks to bait; Tracking the dewy grass with many a mate, To seek the brook that down the meadows glides, Where the grey willow shadows by its sides, Where flag and reed in wild disorder spread, And bending bulrush bows its taper head; And, just above the surface of the floods, Where water-lilies mount their snowy buds, On whose broad swimming leaves of glossy green The shining dragon-fly is often seen: Where hanging thorns, with roots wash’d bare, appear, That shield the moor-hen’s nest from year to year; While crowding osiers mingling wild among Prove snug asylums to her brood when young, Who, when surpris’d by foes approaching near, Plunge ’neath the weeping boughs and disappear. There far from terrors that the parson brings, Or church bell hearing when its summons rings, Half hid in meadow-sweet and keck’s high flowers, In lonely sport they spend the Sunday hours. Though ill supplied for fishing seem the brook, That breaks the mead in many a stinted crook, Oft choak’d in weeds, and foil’d to find a road, The choice retirement of the snake and toad, Then lost in shallows dimpling restlessly, In fluttering struggles murmuring to be free,-- O’er gravel stones its depth can scarcely hide It runs remnant of its broken tide, Till, seemly weary of each choak’d control, It rests collected in some gulled hole Scoop’d by the sudden floods when winter’s snow Melts in confusion by a hasty thaw; There bent in hopeful musings on the brink They watch their floating corks that seldom sink, Save when a wary roach or silver bream Nibbles the worm as passing up the stream, Just urging expectation’s hopes to stay To view the dodging cork, then slink away; Still hopes keep burning with untir’d delight, Still wobbling curves keep wavering like a bite: If but the breezy wind their floats should spring, And move the water with a troubling ring, A captive fish still fills the anxious eyes And willow-wicks lie ready for the prize; Till evening gales awaken damp and chill, And nip the hopes that morning suns instil; And resting flies have tired their gauzy wing, Nor longer tempt the watching fish to spring, Who at the worm no nibbles more repeat, But lunge from night in sheltering flag-retreat. Then disappointed in their day’s employ, They seek amusement in a feebler joy. Short is the sigh for fancies prov’d untrue: With humbler hopes still pleasure they pursue Where the rude oak-bridge scales the narrow pass Half hid in rustling reeds and scrambling grass, Or stepping stones stride o’er the narrow sloughs Which maidens daily cross to milk their cows; There they in artless glee for minnows run, And wade and dabble past the setting sun; Chasing the struttle o’er the shallow tide, And flat stones turning up where gudgeons hide. All former hopes their ill success delay’d, In this new change they fancy well repaid. And thus they wade, and chatter o’er their joys Till night, unlook’d-for, young success destroys, Drives home the sons of solitude and streams, And stops uncloy’d hope’s ever-fresh’ning dreams. They then, like school-boys that at truant play, In sloomy fear lounge on their homeward way, And inly tremble, as they gain the town, Where chastisement awaits with many a frown, And hazel twigs, in readiness prepar’d, For their long absence brings a meet reward.

JUNE