Part 7

Happy as holiday-enjoying face, Loud tongued, and “merry as a marriage bell,” Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place; And where the troubled dwell, Thy witching charms wean them of half their cares: And from thy sunny spell, They greet joy unawares.

Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude, And mantle laced with gems of garish light, Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude, And in the world’s despite, Share the rude wealth that thy own heart beguiles; If haply so I might Win pleasure from thy smiles.

Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers, In nightly revels or in city streets; But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears, That one at leisure meets In the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn, Or fields, where bee-fly greets The ear with mellow horn.

The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe, Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks; The bees go courting every flower that’s ripe, On baulks and sunny banks; And droning dragon-fly, on rude bassoon, Attempts to give God thanks In no discordant tune.

The speckled thrush, by self-delight embued, There sings unto himself for joy’s amends, And drinks the honey dew of solitude. There Happiness attends With inbred Joy until the heart o’erflow, Of which the world’s rude friends. Nought heeding, nothing know.

There the gay river, laughing as it goes, Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides, And to the calm of heart, in calmness shows What pleasure there abides, To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free: Spots, Solitude provides To muse, and happy be.

There ruminating ’neath some pleasant bush, On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease, Where I can pillow on the yielding rush; And, acting as I please, Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie, Mark the wind-shaken trees, And cloud-betravelled sky.

There think me how some barter joy for care, And waste life’s summer-health in riot rude, Of nature, nor of nature’s sweets aware. When passions vain intrude, These, by calm musings, softened are and still; And the heart’s better mood Feels sick of doing ill.

There I can live, and at my leisure seek Joys far from cold restraints--not fearing pride Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek Rude health, so long denied. Here poor Integrity can sit at ease, And list self-satisfied The song of honey bees;

The green lane now I traverse, where it goes Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies Rude batter’d finger post, that stooping shows Where the snug mystery lies; And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown, Cheers up the short surprise, And shows a peeping town.

I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn Of beauty, feeding on joy’s luscious hours; The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn, Agape for honey showers; And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew Of morning’s early hours, Like gold minted new.

And mark by rustic bridge, o’er shallow stream, Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled, Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream; Who now, in gestures wild, Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall, Feeling self-gratified, Nor fearing human thrall.

Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams, Or forests rude, and the o’ershadow’d brims Of simple pond, where idle shepherd dreams, Stretching his listless limbs; Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long Where joy’s wild impulse swims In one continued song.

I love at early morn, from new mown swath, To see the startled frog his route pursue; To mark while, leaping o’er the dripping path, His bright sides scatter dew, The early lark that, from its bustle flies, To hail his matin new; And watch him to the skies.

To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent, The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn, With earnest heed, and tremulous intent, Frail brother of the morn, That from the tiny bent’s dew-misted leaves Withdraws his timid horn, And fearful vision weaves.

Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top, Wont to be first unsealing Morning’s eye, Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop Of honey on his thigh; To see him seek morn’s airy couch to sing, Until the golden sky Bepaint his russet wing.

Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy, With clapping noise to startle birds away, And hear him bawl to every passer by To know the hour of day; While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong, With waking blossoms play, And breathe Æolian song.

I love the south-west wind, or low or loud, And not the less when sudden drops of rain Moisten my glowing cheek from ebon cloud, Threatening soft showers again, That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds, Summer’s sweet breath unchain, And wake harmonious sounds.

Rich music breathes in Summer’s every sound; And in her harmony of varied greens, Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around Much beauty intervenes; Filling with harmony the ear and eye; While o’er the mingling scenes Far spreads the laughing sky.

See, how the wind-enamoured aspin leaves Turn up their silver lining to the sun! And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceives And makes the sheep-boy run; The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers, He thinks the rain’s begun, And hastes to sheltering bowers.

But now the evening curdles dank and grey, Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed; And moping owls, to close the lids of day, On drowsy wing proceed; While chickering crickets, tremulous and long, Light’s farewell inly heed, And give it parting song.

The pranking bat its flighty circlet makes; The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew; O’er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakes Inquiries ever new, Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain, As wanting to pursue His homeward path again.

Hark! ’tis the melody of distant bells That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds By fitful starts, then musically swells O’er the dim stilly grounds; While on the meadow-bridge the pausing boy Listens the mellow sounds, And hums in vacant joy.

Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round His evening faggot, and with every stride His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound, Till silly sheep beside His path start tremulous, and once again Look back dissatisfied, And scour the dewy plain.

How sweet the soothing calmness that distills O’er the heart’s every sense its opiate dews, In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills! That softens and subdues, With gentle Quiet’s bland and sober train, Which dreamy eve renews In many a mellow strain!

I love to walk the fields, they are to me A legacy no evil can destroy; They, like a spell, set every rapture free That cheer’d me when a boy. Play--pastime--all Time’s blotting pen conceal’d, Comes like a new-born joy, To greet me in the field.

For Nature’s objects ever harmonize With emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys; Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize, And meet vibrating joys O’er Nature’s pleasing things; nor slighting, deems Pastimes, the Muse employs, Vain and obtrusive themes.

AUTUMN

Syren of sullen moods and fading hues, Yet haply not incapable of joy, Sweet Autumn! I thee hail With welcome all unfeigned;

And oft as morning from her lattice peeps To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee To drink the dewy breath Of fields left fragrant then,

In solitudes, where no frequented paths But what thy own foot makes betray thine home, Stealing obtrusive there To meditate thy end:

By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks, With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge, Which woo the winds to play, And with them dance for joy;

And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods, Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves, On which, as wont, the fly Oft battens in the sun;

Where leans the mossy willow half way o’er, On which the shepherd crawls astride to throw His angle, clear of weeds That crowd the water’s brim;

Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward, Where, step by step, the patient lonely boy Hath cut rude flights of stairs To climb their steepy sides;

Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise, The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed, And struggles through the weeds With faint and sullen brawl.--

These haunts I long have favoured, more as now With thee thus wandering, moralizing on; Stealing glad thoughts from grief, And happy, though I sigh.

Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair, And raiment shadowy of each wind’s embrace, Fain would I win thine harp To one accordant theme.

Now not inaptly craved, communing thus, Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak, While pillowed on the grass, We fondly ruminate

O’er the disordered scenes of woods and fields, Ploughed lands, thin travelled with half-hungry sheep, Pastures tracked deep with cows, Where small birds seek for seed:

Marking the cow-boy that so merry trills His frequent, unpremeditated song, Wooing the winds to pause, Till echo brawls again;

As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon, He roves, half indolent and self-employed, To rob the little birds Of hips and pendant haws,

And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils, And rambling bramble-berries, pulpy and sweet, Arching their prickly trails Half o’er the narrow lane:

Noting the hedger front with stubborn face The dank bleak wind, that whistles thinly by His leathern garb, thorn proof, And cheek red hot with toil;

While o’er the pleachy lands of mellow brown, The mower’s stubbling scythe clogs to his foot The ever ekeing whisp, With sharp and sudden jerk,

Till into formal rows the russet shocks Crowd the blank field to thatch time-weather’d barns, And hovels rude repair, Stript by disturbing winds.

See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hare Scampers circuitous, with startled ears Prickt up, then squat, as by She brushes to the woods,

Where reeded grass, breast-high and undisturbed, Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing winds Soften her rigid fears, And lull to calm repose.

Wild Sorceress! me thy restless mood delights, More than the stir of summer’s crowded scenes, Where, jostled in the din, Joy palled my ear with song;

Heart-sickening for the silence, that is here Not broken inharmoniously, as now That lone and vagrant bee Booms faint with weary chime.

Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woods In tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath, Some sickly cankered leaf Let go its hold, and die.

And now the bickering storm, with sudden start, In flirting fits of anger carps aloud, Thee urging to thine end, Sore wept by troubled skies.

And yet, sublime in grief! thy thoughts delight To show me visions of most gorgeous dyes, Haply forgetting now They but prepare thy shroud;

Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades, Improvident of waste, till every bough Burns with thy mellow touch Disorderly divine.

Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream Droop faintly, and so reckon for thine end, As sad the winds sink low In dirges for their queen;

While in the moment of their weary pause, To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark Starts from his shielding clod, Snatching sweet scraps of song.

Thy life is waning now, and Silence tries To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds, As stooping low she bends, Forming with leaves thy grave;

To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods, Till parched-lipped Summer pines in drought away Then from thine ivy’d trance Awake to glories new.

THE VANITIES OF LIFE

What are life’s joys and gains, What pleasures crowd its ways, That man should take such pains To seek them all his days? Sift this untoward strife On which thy mind is bent-- See if this chaff of life Be worth the trouble spent.

Is pride thy heart’s desire? Is power thy climbing aim? Is love thy folly’s fire? Is wealth thy restless game?-- Pride, power, love, wealth, and all, Time’s touchstone shall destroy; And, like base coin, prove all Vain substitutes for joy.

Dost think thy pride exalts Thyself in others’ eyes, And hides thy folly’s faults, Which reason will despise? Dost strut, and turn, and stride, Like walking weathercocks? The shadow, by thy side, Becomes thy ape, and mocks.

Dost think that power’s disguise Can make thee mighty seem? It may in folly’s eyes, But not in worth’s esteem. When all that thou canst ask, And all that she can give, Is but a paltry mask, Which tyrants wear and live.

Go, let thy fancies range, And ramble where they may View power in every change, And what is its display?-- The country magistrate, The lowest shade in power, To rulers of the state?-- The meteors of an hour.

View all, and mark the end Of every proud extreme, Where flattery turns a friend, And counterfeits esteem; Where worth is aped in show, That doth her name purloin-- As toys of golden glow, Are sold for copper coin.

Ambition’s haughty nod With fancies may deceive-- Nay, tell thee thou’rt a god; And wilt thou such believe? Go, bid the seas be dry; Go, hold earth like a ball; Or throw thy fancies by, For God can do it all.

Dost thou possess the dower Of laws, to spare or kill? Call it not heavenly power, When but a tyrant’s will. Know what a god will do, And know thyself a fool; Nor tyrant-like pursue, Where he alone should rule.

O put away thy pride, Or be ashamed of power That cannot turn aside The breeze that waves a flower; Or bid the clouds be still-- Though shadows, they can brave Thy poor power-mocking will, Then make not man a slave.

Dost think, when wealth is won, Thy heart has its desire? Hold ice up to the sun, And wax before the fire; Nor triumph o’er the reign Which they so soon resign, In this world’s ways they gain Insurance safe as thine.

Dost think life’s peace secure In houses and in land? Go, read the fairy lure-- To twist a cord of sand, Lodge stones upon the sky, Hold water in a sieve; Nor give such tales the lie, And still thine own believe.

Whoso with riches deals, And thinks peace bought and sold, Will find them slippery eels, That slide the firmest hold; Though sweet as sleep with health Thy lulling luck may be, Pride may o’erstride thy wealth, And check prosperity.

Dost think that beauty’s power Life’s sweetest pleasure gives? Go, pluck the summer flower, And see how long it lives: Behold the rays glide on Along the summer plain, ’Ere thou canst say, “They’re gone!” And measure beauty’s reign.

Look on the brightest eye, Nor teach it to be proud, But view the clearest sky, And thou shalt find a cloud; Nor call each face you meet An angel’s, ’cause it’s fair, But look beneath your feet, And think of what they are.

Who thinks that love doth live In beauty’s tempting show, Shall find his hopes misgive, And melt in reason’s thaw; Who thinks that pleasure lies In every fairy bower, Shall oft, to his surprise, Find poison in the flower.

Dost lawless passions grasp?-- Judge not thou deal’st in joy; Its flowers but hide the asp, Thy revels to destroy. Who trusts a harlot’s smile, And by her wiles is led, Plays with a sword the while, Hung dropping o’er his head.

Dost doubt my warning song?-- Then doubt the sun gives light; Doubt truth to teach the wrong, And wrong alone as right; And live as lives the knave, Intrigue’s deceiving guest; Be tyrant or be slave, As suits thy ends the best.

Or pause amid thy toils For visions won and lost, And count the fancied spoils, If ’ere they quit the cost; And if they still possess, Thy mind as worthy things; Plat straws with bedlam Bess, And call them diamond rings.

Thy folly’s past advice, Thy heart’s already won, Thy fall’s above all price, So go and be undone: For all who thus prefer The seeming great for small, Shall make wine vinegar, And sweetest honey gall.

Would’st heed the truths I sing, To profit wherewithal? Clip Folly’s wanton wing, And keep her within call. I’ve little else to give, What thou canst easy try; The lesson how to live, Is but to learn to die.

THOUGHTS IN A CHURCH-YARD

Ah! happy spot, how still it seems Where crowds of buried memories sleep; How quiet Nature o’er them dreams, ’Tis but our troubled thoughts that weep. Life’s book shuts here--its page is lost With them, and all its busy claims, The poor are from its memory crost, The rich leave nothing but their names.

There rest the weary from their toil; There lie the troubled, free from care; Who through the strife of life’s turmoil Sought rest, and only found it there. With none to fear his scornful brow, There sleeps the master with the slave; And heedless of all titles now, Repose the honoured and the brave.

There rest the miser and the heir, Both careless who their wealth shall reap; E’en love finds cure for heart-aches here, And none enjoy a sounder sleep. The fair one far from folly’s freaks, As quiet as her neighbour seems, Unconscious now of rosy cheeks, Without a rival in her dreams.

Strangers alike to joy and strife, Heedless of all its past affairs. They’re blotted from the list of life, And absent from its teazing cares. Grief, joy, hope, fear, and all their crew That haunt the memory’s living mind, Ceased, when they could no more pursue, And left a painless blank behind.

Life’s _ignis fatuus_ light is gone, No more to lead their hopes astray; Care’s poisoned cup is drain’d and done, And all its follies past away. The bill’s made out, the reck’ning paid, The book is cross’d, the business done; On them the last demand is made, And heaven’s eternal peace is won.

THE NIGHTINGALE’S NEST