Part 6

Now Summer is in flower, and Nature’s hum Is never silent round her bounteous bloom; Insects, as small as dust, have never done With glitt’ring dance, and reeling in the sun; And green wood-fly, and blossom-haunting bee, Are never weary of their melody. Round field and hedge, flowers in full glory twine, Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak’d woodbine, That lift athirst their slender throated flowers, Agape for dew-fall, and for honey showers; These o’er each bush in sweet disorder run, And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun. The mottled spider, at eve’s leisure, weaves His webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves, Which ev’ry morning meet the poet’s eye, Like fairies’ dew-wet dresses hung to dry. The wheat swells into ear, and hides below The May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show, Leaving, a school-boy’s height, in snugger rest, The leveret’s seat, and lark, and partridge nest. The mowers now bend o’er the beaded grass, Where oft the gipsy’s hungry journeying ass Will turn his wishes from the meadow paths, List’ning the rustle of the falling swaths. The ploughman sweats along the fallow vales And down the sun-crack’d furrow slowly trails; Oft seeking, when athirst, the brook’s supply, Where, brushing eagerly the bushes by For coolest water, he disturbs the rest Of ring-dove, brooding o’er its idle nest. The shepherd’s leisure hours are over now; No more he loiters ’neath the hedge-row bough, On shadow-pillowed banks and lolling stile; The wilds must lose their summer friend awhile. With whistle, barking dogs, and chiding scold, He drives the bleating sheep from fallow fold To wash-pools, where the willow shadows lean, Dashing them in, their stained coats to clean, Then, on the sunny sward, when dry again, He brings them homeward to the clipping pen, Of hurdles, form’d where elm or sycamore Shut out the sun--or to some threshing-floor. There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale, He lightens annual toil, while merry ale Goes round, and glads some old man’s heart to praise The threadbare customs of his early days: How the high bowl was in the middle set At breakfast time, when clippers yearly met, Fill’d full of furmety, where dainty swum The streaking sugar and the spotting plum. The maids could never to the table bring The bowl, without one rising from the ring To lend a hand; who, if ’twere ta’en amiss, Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss. The large stone pitcher in its homely trim And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim, Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits high Healths of the best the cellar could supply; While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes, Songs that were pictures of the good old times. Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail, Till toiling shears gain ground upon the tale, And break it off,--for now the timid sheep, His fleece shorn off, starts with a fearful leap, Shaking his naked skin with wond’ring joys, While others are brought in by sturdy boys. Though fashion’s haughty frown hath thrown aside Half the old forms simplicity supplied, Yet there are some pride’s winter deigns to spare, Left like green ivy when the trees are bare. And now, when shearing of the flocks is done Some ancient customs, mix’d with harmless fun, Crown the swain’s merry toils. The timid maid, Pleased to be praised, and yet of praise afraid, Seeks the best flowers; not those of woods and fields, But such as every farmer’s garden yields-- Fine cabbage-roses, painted like her face; The shining pansy, trimm’d with golden lace; The tall topp’d larkheels, feather’d thick with flowers; The woodbine, climbing o’er the door in bowers; The London tufts, of many a mottled hue; The pale pink pea, and monkshood darkly blue; The white and purple gilliflowers, that stay Ling’ring, in blossom, summer half away; The single blood-walls, of a luscious smell, Old-fashion’d flowers which housewives love so well; The columbine, stone-blue, or deep night-brown, Their honeycomb-like blossoms hanging down, Each cottage-garden’s fond adopted child, Though heaths still claim them, where they yet grow wild; With marjoram knots, sweet-brier, and ribbon-grass, And lavender, the choice of ev’ry lass, And sprigs of lad’s-love--all familiar names, Which every garden through the village claims. These the maid gathers with a coy delight, And ties them up, in readiness for night; Then gives to ev’ry swain, ’tween love and shame, Her “clipping-posies” as his yearly claim. He rises, to obtain the custom’d kiss:-- With stifled smiles, half hankering after bliss, She shrinks away, and blushing, calls it rude; Yet turns to smile, and hopes to be pursued; While one, to whom the hint may be applied, Follows to gain it, and is not denied. The rest the loud laugh raise, to make it known,-- She blushes silent, and will not disown! Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways, Keep up a shadow still of former days; But the old beechen bowl, that once supplied The feast of furmety, is thrown aside; And the old freedom that was living then, When masters made them merry with their men; When all their coats alike were russet brown, And his rude speech was vulgar as their own-- All this is past, and soon will pass away The time-torn remnant of the holiday.

DECEMBER

Glad Christmas comes, and every hearth Makes room to give him welcome now, E’en want will dry its tears in mirth, And crown him with a holly bough; Though tramping ’neath a winter sky, O’er snowy paths and rimy stiles, The housewife sets her spinning by To bid him welcome with her smiles.

Each house is swept the day before, And windows stuck with evergreens, The snow is besom’d from the door, And comfort crowns the cottage scenes. Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks, And yew and box, with berries small, These deck the unused candlesticks, And pictures hanging by the wall.

Neighbours resume their annual cheer, Wishing, with smiles and spirits high, Glad Christmas and a happy year, To every morning passer-by; Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go, Accompanied with favour’d swain; And children pace the crumping snow To taste their granny’s cake again.

The shepherd, now no more afraid, Since custom doth the chance bestow, Starts up to kiss the giggling maid Beneath the branch of mistletoe That ’neath each cottage beam is seen, With pearl-like berries shining gay; The shadow still of what hath been, Which fashion yearly fades away.

The singing wates, a merry throng, At early morn, with simple skill, Yet imitate the angel’s song, And chant their Christmas ditty still; And ’mid the storm that dies and swells By fits--in hummings softly steals The music of the village bells, Ringing round their merry peals.

When this is past, a merry crew, Bedeck’d in masks and ribbons gay, The “Morris-dance,” their sports renew, And act their winter evening play. The clown turn’d king, for penny-praise, Storms with the actor’s strut and swell; And Harlequin, a laugh to raise, Wears his hunch-back and tinkling bell.

And oft for pence and spicy ale, With winter nosegays pinn’d before, The wassail-singer tells her tale, And drawls her Christmas carols o’er. While ’prentice boy, with ruddy face, And rime-bepowder’d, dancing locks, From door to door with happy pace, Runs round to claim his “Christmas box.”

The block upon the fire is put, To sanction custom’s old desires; And many a fagot’s bands are cut, For the old farmers’ Christmas fires; Where loud-tongued Gladness joins the throng, And Winter meets the warmth of May, Till feeling soon the heat too strong, He rubs his shins, and draws away.

While snows the window-panes bedim, The fire curls up a sunny charm, Where, creaming o’er the pitcher’s rim, The flowering ale is set to warm; Mirth, full of joy as summer bees, Sits there, its pleasures to impart And children, ’tween their parent’s knees, Sing scraps of carols o’er by heart.

And some, to view the winter weathers, Climb up the window-seat with glee. Likening the snow to falling feathers, In Fancy’s infant ecstasy; Laughing, with superstitious love, O’er visions wild that youth supplies, Of people pulling geese above, And keeping Christmas in the skies.

As tho’ the homestead trees were drest, In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves; As tho’ the sun-dried martin’s nest, Instead of i’cles hung the eaves; The children hail the happy day-- As if the snow were April’s grass, And pleas’d, as ’neath the warmth of May, Sport o’er the water froze to glass.

Thou day of happy sound and mirth, That long with childish memory stays, How blest around the cottage hearth I met thee in my younger days! Harping, with rapture’s dreaming joys, On presents which thy coming found, The welcome sight of little toys, The Christmas gifts of cousins round.

The wooden horse with arching head, Drawn upon wheels around the room; The gilded coach of gingerbread, And many-colour’d sugar plum; Gilt cover’d books for pictures sought, Or stories childhood loves to tell, With many an urgent promise bought, To get to-morrow’s lesson well.

And many a thing, a minute’s sport, Left broken on the sanded floor, When we would leave our play, and court Our parent’s promises for more. Tho’ manhood bids such raptures die, And throws such toys aside as vain, Yet memory loves to turn her eye, And count past pleasures o’er again.

Around the glowing hearth at night, The harmless laugh and winter tale Go round, while parting friends delight To toast each other o’er their ale; The cotter oft with quiet zeal Will musing o’er his Bible lean; While in the dark the lovers steal To kiss and toy behind the screen.

Old customs! Oh! I love the sound: However simple they may be: Whate’er with time have sanction found, Is welcome, and is dear to me. Pride grows above simplicity, And spurns them from her haughty mind, And soon the poet’s song will be The only refuge they can find.

THE APPROACH OF SPRING

Now once again, thou lovely Spring, Thy sight the day beguiles; For fresher greens the fairy ring, The daisy brighter smiles: The winds, that late with chiding voice Would fain thy stay prolong, Relent, while little birds rejoice, And mingle into song.

Undaunted maiden, thou shalt find Thy home in gleaming woods, Thy mantle in the southern wind, Thy wreath in swelling buds: And may thy mantle wrap thee round, And hopes still warm and thrive, And dews with every morn be found To keep thy wreath alive.

May coming suns, that tempt thy flowers, Smile on as they begin; And gentle be succeeding hours As those that bring thee in; Full lovely are thy dappled skies, Pearl’d round with promised showers, And sweet thy blossoms round thee rise To meet the sunny hours.

The primrose bud, thy early pledge, Sprouts ’neath each woodland tree, And violets under every hedge Prepare a seat for thee: As maids just meeting woman’s bloom Feel love’s delicious strife, So Nature warms to find thee come, And kindles into life.

Through hedge-row leaves, in drifted heaps Left by the stormy blast, The little hopeful blossom peeps, And tells of winter past: A few leaves flutter from the woods, That hung the season through, Leaving their place for swelling buds To spread their leaves anew.

’Mong withered grass upon the plain, That lent the blast a voice, The tender green appears again, And creeping things rejoice; Each warm bank shines with early flowers, Where oft a lonely bee Drones, venturing on in sunny hours, Its humming song to thee.

The birds are busy on the wing, The fish play in the stream; And many a hasty curdled ring Crimps round the leaping bream; The buds unfold to leaves apace, Along the hedge-row bowers, And many a child with rosy face Is seeking after flowers.

The soft wind fans the violet blue, Its opening sweets to share, And infant breezes, waked anew, Play in the maidens’ hair-- Maidens that freshen with thy flowers, To charm the gentle swain, And dally, in their milking hours, With lovers’ vows again.

Bright dews illume the grassy plain, Sweet messengers of morn, And drops hang glistening after rain Like gems on every thorn; What though the grass is moist and rank Where dews fall from the tree, The creeping sun smiles on the bank And warms a seat for thee.

The eager morning earlier wakes To glad thy fond desires, And oft its rosy bed forsakes Ere night’s pale moon retires; Sweet shalt thou feel the morning sun To warm thy dewy breast, And chase the chill mist’s purple dun That lingers in the west.

Her dresses Nature gladly trims, To hail thee as her queen, And soon shall fold thy lovely limbs In modest garb of green: Each day shall like a lover come Some gifts with thee to share, And swarms of flowers shall quickly bloom To dress thy golden hair.

All life and beauty warm and smile Thy lovely face to see, And many a hopeful hour beguile In seeking joys with thee; The sweetest hours that ever come Are those which thou dost bring, And sure the fairest flowers that bloom Are partners of the Spring.

I’ve met the Winter’s biting breath In nature’s wild retreat, When Silence listens as in death, And thought its wildness sweet; And I have loved the Winter’s calm When frost has left the plain, When suns that morning waken’d warm Left eve to freeze again.

I’ve heard in Autumn’s early reign Her first, her gentlest song; I’ve mark’d her change o’er wood and plain, And wish’d her reign were long; Till winds like armies, gather’d round, And stripp’d her colour’d woods, And storms urged on, with thunder-sound Their desolating floods.

And Summer’s endless stretch of green, Spread over plain and tree, Sweet solace to my eyes has been, As it to all must be; Long I have stood his burning heat, And breathed the sultry day, And walk’d and toil’d with weary feet, Nor wish’d his pride away.

But oft I’ve watch’d the greening buds Brush’d by the linnet’s wing, When, like a child, the gladden’d woods First lisp the voice of Spring; When flowers, like dreams, peep every day, Reminding what they bring; I’ve watch’d them, and am warn’d to pay A preference to Spring.

TO THE RURAL MUSE.

Muse of the Fields! oft have I said farewell To thee, my boon companion, loved so long, And hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dell, For abler hands to wake an abler song. Much did I fear my homage did thee wrong: Yet, loth to leave, as oft I turned again; And to its wires mine idle hands would cling, Torturing it into song. It may be vain; Yet still I try, ere Fancy droops her wing, And hopeless Silence comes to numb its ev’ry string.

Muse of the Pasture Brooks! on thy calm sea Of poesy I’ve sailed; and though the will To speed were greater than my prowess be, I’ve ventur’d with much fear of usage ill, Yet more of joy. Though timid be my skill, As not to dare the depths of mightier streams; Yet rocks abide in shallow ways, and I Have much of fear to mingle with my dreams. Yet, lovely Muse, I still believe thee by, And think I see thee smile, and so forget I sigh.

Muse of the Cottage Hearth! oft did I tell My hopes to thee, nor feared to plead in vain; But felt around my heart thy witching spell, That bade me as thy worshipper remain: I did so, and still worship. Oh! again Smile on my offerings, and so keep them green! Bedeck my fancies like the clouds of even, Mingling all hues which thou from heaven dost glean! To me a portion of thy power be given, If theme so mean as mine may merit aught of heaven.

For thee in youth I culled the simple flower, That on thy bosom gained a sweeter hue, And took thy hand along life’s sunny hour, Meeting the sweetest joys that ever grew: More friends were needless, and my foes were few. Though freedom then be deemed as rudeness now. And what once won thy praise now meets disdain, Yet the last wreath I braided for thy brow, Thy smiles did so commend, it made me vain To weave another one, and hope for praise again.

With thee the spirit of departed years Wakes that sweet voice which time hath rendered dumb; And freshens, like to spring, loves, hopes, and fears, That in my bosom found an early home, Wooing the heart to ecstasy.--I come To thee, when sick of care, of joy bereft, Seeking the pleasures that are found in bloom. O happy hopes, that Time hath only left Around the haunts where thou didst erst sojourn! Then smile, sweet Muse, again, and welcome my return.

With thee the raptures of life’s early day Appear, and all that pleased me when a boy. Though pains and cares have torn the best away, And winter creeps between us to destroy, Do thou commend, the recompence is joy: The tempest of the heart shall soon be calm. Though sterner Truth against my dreams rebel, Hope feels success; and all my spirits warm, To strike with happier mood thy simple shell, And seize thy mantle’s hem--O! say not fare-thee-well.

Still, sweet Enchantress! youth’s strong feelings move, That from thy presence their existence took:-- The innocent idolatry and love, Paying thee worship in each secret nook, That fancied friends in tree, and flower, and brook, Shaped clouds to angels and beheld them smile, And heard commending tongues in ev’ry wind. Life’s grosser fancies did these dreams defile, Yet not entirely root them from the mind; I think I hear them still, and often look behind.

Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind, As if commending what I sung to thee; Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined, Kindling my fancies into poesy; I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me. In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest; I thought the very clouds around thee knelt: I saw the sun to linger in the west, Paying thee worship; and as eve did melt In dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt.

Sweeter than flowers on beauty’s bosom hung, Sweeter than dreams of happiness above, Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty sung, Are the young fancies of a poet’s love. When round his thoughts thy trancing visions move. In floating melody no notes may sound, The world is all forgot and past his care, While on thy harp thy fingers lightly bound, As winning him its melody to share; And heaven itself, with him, where is it then but there?

E’en now my heart leaps out from grief, and all The gloom thrown round by Care’s o’ershading wing; E’en now those sunny visions to recall, Like to a bird I quit dull earth and sing: Life’s tempest swoon to calms on every string. Ah! sweet Enchantress, if I do but dream, If earthly visions have been only mine, My weakness in thy service woos esteem, And proves my truth as almost worthy thine: Surely true worship makes the meanest theme divine.

And still, warm courage, calming many a fear, Heartens my hand once more thy harp to try To join the anthem of the minstrel year: For summer’s music in thy praise is high; The very winds about thy mantle sigh Love-melodies; thy minstrel bards to be, Insects and birds, exerting all their skill, Float in continued song for mastery, While in thy haunts loud leaps the little rill, To kiss thy mantle’s hem; and how can I be still?

There still I see thee fold thy mantle grey, To trace the dewy lawn at morn and night; And there I see thee, in the sunny day, Withdraw thy veil and shine confest in light; Burning my fancies with a wild delight, To win a portion of thy blushing fame. Though haughty Fancy treat thy power as small, And Fashion thy simplicity disclaim, Should but a portion of thy mantle fall O’er him who woos thy love, ’tis recompense for all.

Not with the mighty to thy shrine I come, In anxious sighs, or self applauding mirth, On Mount Parnassus as thine heir to roam: I dare not credit that immortal birth; But mingling with the lesser ones on earth-- Like as the little lark from off its nest, Beside the mossy hill awakes in glee, To seek the morning’s throne a merry guest-- So do I seek thy shrine, if that may be, To win by new attempts another smile from thee.

If without thee ’neath storms, and clouds, and wind, I’ve roam’d the wood, and field, and meadow lea; And found no flowers but what the vulgar find, Nor met one breath of living poesy, Among such charms where inspirations be; The fault is mine--and I must bear the lot Of missing praise to merit thy disdain. To feel each idle plea though urged, forgot; I can but sigh--though foolish to complain O’er hopes so fair begun, to find them end so vain.

Then will it prove presumption thus to dare To add fresh failings to each faulty song, Urging thy blessings on an idle prayer, To sanction silly themes: it will be wrong For one so lowly to be heard so long. Yet, sweet Enchantress, yet a little while Forego impatience, and from frowns refrain; The strong are ne’er debarr’d thy cheering smile, Why should the weak, who need them most, complain Alone, in solitude, soliciting in vain?

But if my efforts on thy harp prove true, Which bashful youth at first so feared to try; If aught of nature be in sounds I drew From hope’s young dreams, and doubt’s uncertainty, To these late offerings, not without their sigh; Then on thine altar shall these themes be laid, And past the deeds of graven brass remain, Filling a space in time that shall not fade; And if it be not so--avert disdain, Till dust shall feel no sting, nor know it toil’d in vain.

SUMMER IMAGES

Now swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned, Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring; And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank’d, and crown’d, A wild and giddy thing, And Health robust, from every care unbound, Come on the zephyr’s wing, And cheer the toiling clown.