Chapter 6

But now she's gone:--girls, shun deceitful men, The worst of stumbles ye can fall agen; Be deaf to them, and then, as twere, ye'll see Your pleasures safe as under lock and key. Throw not my words away, as many do; They're gold in value, though they're cheap to you. And husseys hearken, and be warned from this, If ye love mothers, never do amiss: Jane might love hers, but she forsook the plan To make her happy, when she thought of man. Poor tottering dame, it was too plainly known, Her daughter's dying hastened on her own, For from the day the tidings reached her door She took to bed and looked up no more, And, ere again another year came round, She, well as Jane, was laid within the ground; And all were grieved poor Goody's end to see: No better neighbour entered house than she, A harmless soul, with no abusive tongue, Trig as new pins, and tight's the day was long; And go the week about, nine times in ten Ye'd find her house as cleanly as her sen. But, Lord protect us! time such change does bring, We cannot dream what oer our heads may hing; The very house she lived in, stick and stone, Since Goody died, has tumbled down and gone: And where the marjoram once, and sage, and rue, And balm, and mint, with curled-leaf parsley grew, And double marygolds, and silver thyme, And pumpkins neath the window used to climb; And where I often when a child for hours Tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers, As lady's laces, everlasting peas, True-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-ease, And golden rods, and tansy running high That oer the pale-tops smiled on passers-by, Flowers in my time that every one would praise, Though thrown like weeds from gardens nowadays; Where these all grew, now henbane stinks and spreads, And docks and thistles shake their seedy heads, And yearly keep with nettles smothering oer;-- The house, the dame, the garden known no more: While, neighbouring nigh, one lonely elder-tree Is all that's left of what had used to be, Marking the place, and bringing up with tears The recollections of one's younger years. And now I've done, ye're each at once as free To take your trundle as ye used to be; To take right ways, as Jenny should have ta'en, Or headlong run, and be a second Jane; For by one thoughtless girl that's acted ill A thousand may be guided if they will: As oft mong folks to labour bustling on, We mark the foremost kick against a stone, Or stumble oer a stile he meant to climb, While hind ones see and shun the fall in time. But ye, I will be bound, like far the best Love's tickling nick-nacks and the laughing jest, And ten times sooner than be warned by me, Would each be sitting on some fellow's knee, Sooner believe the lies wild chaps will tell Than old dames' cautions, who would wish ye well: So have your wills."--She pinched her box again, And ceased her tale, and listened to the rain, Which still as usual pattered fast around, And bowed the bent-head loaded to the ground; While larks, their naked nest by force forsook, Pruned their wet wings in bushes by the brook.

The maids, impatient now old Goody ceased, As restless children from the school released, Right gladly proving, what she'd just foretold, That young ones' stories were preferred to old, Turn to the whisperings of their former joy, That oft deceive, but very rarely cloy.

_In Hilly-Wood_

How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs, Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me; Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs, But not an eye can find its way to see. The sunbeams scarce molest me with a smile, So thickly the leafy armies gather round; And where they do, the breeze blows cool the while, Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground. Full many a flower, too, wishing to be seen, Perks up its head the hiding grass between,-- In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be; Where all the noises, that on peace intrude, Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee, Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.

_The Ants_

What wonder strikes the curious, while he views The black ant's city, by a rotten tree, Or woodland bank! In ignorance we muse: Pausing, annoyed,--we know not what we see, Such government and thought there seem to be; Some looking on, and urging some to toil, Dragging their loads of bent-stalks slavishly: And what's more wonderful, when big loads foil One ant or two to carry, quickly then A swarm flock round to help their fellow-men. Surely they speak a language whisperingly, Too fine for us to hear; and sure their ways Prove they have kings and laws, and that they be Deformed remnants of the Fairy-days.

_To Anna Three Years Old_

My Anna, summer laughs in mirth, And we will of the party be, And leave the crickets in the hearth For green fields' merry minstrelsy.

I see thee now with little hand Catch at each object passing bye, The happiest thing in all the land Except the bee and butterfly.

* * * * *

And limpid brook that leaps along, Gilt with the summer's burnished gleam, Will stop thy little tale or song To gaze upon its crimping stream.

Thou'lt leave my hand with eager speed The new discovered things to see-- The old pond with its water weed And danger-daring willow tree, Who leans an ancient invalid Oer spots where deepest waters be.

In sudden shout and wild surprise I hear thy simple wonderment, As new things meet thy childish eyes And wake some innocent intent;

As bird or bee or butterfly Bounds through the crowd of merry leaves And starts the rapture of thine eye To run for what it neer achieves.

But thou art on the bed of pain, So tells each poor forsaken toy. Ah, could I see that happy hour When these shall be thy heart's employ, And see thee toddle oer the plain, And stoop for flowers, and shout for joy.

_From "The Parish: A Satire"_

I

In politics and politicians' lies The modern farmer waxes wondrous wise; Opinionates with wisdom all compact, And een could tell a nation how to act; Throws light on darkness with excessive skill, Knows who acts well and whose designs are ill, Proves half the members nought but bribery's tools, And calls the past a dull dark age of fools.

As wise as Solomon they read the news, Not with their blind forefathers' simple views, Who read of wars, and wished that wars would cease, And blessed the King, and wished his country peace; Who marked the weight of each fat sheep and ox, The price of grain and rise and fall of stocks; Who thought it learning how to buy and sell, And him a wise man who could manage well. No, not with such old-fashioned, idle views Do these newsmongers traffic with the news. They read of politics and not of grain, And speechify and comment and explain, And know so much of Parliament and state You'd think they're members when you heard them prate; And know so little of their farms the while They can but urge a wiser man to smile.

II

A thing all consequence here takes the lead, Reigning knight-errant oer this dirty breed-- A bailiff he, and who so great to brag Of law and all its terrors as Bumtagg; Fawning a puppy at his master's side And frowning like a wolf on all beside; Who fattens best where sorrow worst appears And feeds on sad misfortune's bitterest tears? Such is Bumtagg the bailiff to a hair, The worshipper and demon of despair, Who waits and hopes and wishes for success At every nod and signal of distress, Happy at heart, when storms begin to boil, To seek the shipwreck and to share the spoil. Brave is this Bumtagg, match him if you can; For there's none like him living--save his man.

As every animal assists his kind Just so are these in blood and business joined; Yet both in different colours hide their art, And each as suits his ends transacts his part. One keeps the heart-bred villain full in sight, The other cants and acts the hypocrite, Smoothing the deed where law sharks set their gin Like a coy dog to draw misfortune in. But both will chuckle oer their prisoners' sighs And are as blest as spiders over flies. Such is Bumtagg, whose history I resign, As other knaves wait room to stink and shine; And, as the meanest knave a dog can brag, Such is the lurcher that assists Bumtagg.

_Nobody Cometh to Woo_

On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark, And I opened the window to see, When every maiden went by with her spark But neer a one came to me. And O dear what will become of me? And O dear what shall I do, When nobody whispers to marry me-- Nobody cometh to woo?

None's born for such troubles as I be: If the sun wakens first in the morn "Lazy hussy" my parents both call me, And I must abide by their scorn, For nobody cometh to marry me, Nobody cometh to woo, So here in distress must I tarry me-- What can a poor maiden do?

If I sigh through the window when Jerry The ploughman goes by, I grow bold; And if I'm disposed to be merry, My parents do nothing but scold; And Jerry the clown, and no other, Eer cometh to marry or woo; They think me the moral of mother And judge me a terrible shrew.

For mother she hateth all fellows, And spinning's my father's desire, While the old cat growls bass with the bellows If eer I hitch up to the fire. I make the whole house out of humour, I wish nothing else but to please, Would fortune but bring a new comer To marry, and make me at ease!

When I've nothing my leisure to hinder I scarce get as far as the eaves; Her head's instant out of the window Calling out like a press after thieves. The young men all fall to remarking, And laugh till they're weary to see't, While the dogs at the noise begin barking, And I slink in with shame from the street.

My mother's aye jealous of loving, My father's aye jealous of play, So what with them both there's no moving, I'm in durance for life and a day. O who shall I get for to marry me? Who will have pity to woo? Tis death any longer to tarry me, And what shall a poor maiden do?

_Distant Hills_

What is there in those distant hills My fancy longs to see, That many a mood of joy instils? Say what can fancy be?

Do old oaks thicken all the woods, With weeds and brakes as here? Does common water make the floods, That's common everywhere?

Is grass the green that clothes the ground? Are springs the common springs? Daisies and cowslips dropping round, Are such the flowers she brings?

* * * * *

Are cottages of mud and stone, By valley wood and glen, And their calm dwellers little known Men, and but common men,

That drive afield with carts and ploughs? Such men are common here, And pastoral maidens milking cows Are dwelling everywhere.

If so my fancy idly clings To notions far away, And longs to roam for common things All round her every day,

Right idle would the journey be To leave one's home so far, And see the moon I now can see And every little star.

And have they there a night and day, And common counted hours? And do they see so far away This very moon of ours?

* * * * *

I mark him climb above the trees With one small [comrade] star, And think me in my reveries-- He cannot shine so far.

* * * * *

The poets in the tales they tell And with their happy powers Have made lands where their fancies dwell Seem better lands than ours.

Why need I sigh far hills to see If grass is their array, While here the little paths go through The greenest every day?

Such fancies fill the restless mind, At once to cheat and cheer With thought and semblance undefined, Nowhere and everywhere.

MIDDLE PERIOD 1824-1836

_The Stranger_

When trouble haunts me, need I sigh? No, rather smile away despair; For those have been more sad than I, With burthens more than I could bear; Aye, gone rejoicing under care Where I had sunk in black despair.

When pain disturbs my peace and rest, Am I a hopeless grief to keep, When some have slept on torture's breast And smiled as in the sweetest sleep, Aye, peace on thorns, in faith forgiven, And pillowed on the hope of heaven?

Though low and poor and broken down, Am I to think myself distrest? No, rather laugh where others frown And think my being truly blest; For others I can daily see More worthy riches worse than me.

Aye, once a stranger blest the earth Who never caused a heart to mourn, Whose very voice gave sorrow mirth-- And how did earth his worth return? It spurned him from its lowliest lot, The meanest station owned him not;

An outcast thrown in sorrow's way, A fugitive that knew no sin, Yet in lone places forced to stray-- Men would not take the stranger in. Yet peace, though much himself he mourned, Was all to others he returned.

* * * * *

His presence was a peace to all, He bade the sorrowful rejoice. Pain turned to pleasure at his call, Health lived and issued from his voice. He healed the sick and sent abroad The dumb rejoicing in the Lord.

The blind met daylight in his eye, The joys of everlasting day; The sick found health in his reply; The cripple threw his crutch away. Yet he with troubles did remain And suffered poverty and pain.

Yet none could say of wrong he did, And scorn was ever standing bye; Accusers by their conscience chid, When proof was sought, made no reply. Yet without sin he suffered more Than ever sinners did before.

_Song's Eternity_

What is song's eternity? Come and see. Can it noise and bustle be? Come and see. Praises sung or praises said Can it be? Wait awhile and these are dead-- Sigh, sigh; Be they high or lowly bred They die.

What is song's eternity? Come and see. Melodies of earth and sky, Here they be. Song once sung to Adam's ears Can it be? Ballads of six thousand years Thrive, thrive; Songs awaken with the spheres Alive.

Mighty songs that miss decay, What are they? Crowds and cities pass away Like a day. Books are out and books are read; What are they? Years will lay them with the dead-- Sigh, sigh; Trifles unto nothing wed, They die.

Dreamers, mark the honey bee; Mark the tree Where the blue cap "_tootle tee_" Sings a glee Sung to Adam and to Eve Here they be. When floods covered every bough, Noah's ark Heard that ballad singing now; Hark, hark,

"_Tootle tootle tootle tee_"-- Can it be Pride and fame must shadows be? Come and see-- Every season own her own; Bird and bee Sing creation's music on; Nature's glee Is in every mood and tone Eternity.

_The Old Cottagers_

The little cottage stood alone, the pride Of solitude surrounded every side. Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall; A garden with its hawthorn hedge was all The space between.--Green light did pass Through one small window, where a looking-glass Placed in the parlour, richly there revealed A spacious landscape and a blooming field. The pasture cows that herded on the moor Printed their footsteps to the very door, Where little summer flowers with seasons blow And scarcely gave the eldern leave to grow. The cuckoo that one listens far away Sung in the orchard trees for half the day; And where the robin lives, the village guest, In the old weedy hedge the leafy nest Of the coy nightingale was yearly found, Safe from all eyes as in the loneliest ground; And little chats that in bean stalks will lie A nest with cobwebs there will build, and fly Upon the kidney bean that twines and towers Up little poles in wreaths of scarlet flowers.

There a lone couple lived, secluded there From all the world considers joy or care, Lived to themselves, a long lone journey trod, And through their Bible talked aloud to God; While one small close and cow their wants maintained, But little needing, and but little gained. Their neighbour's name was peace, with her they went, With tottering age, and dignified content, Through a rich length of years and quiet days, And filled the neighbouring village with their praise.

_Young Lambs_

The spring is coming by a many signs; The trays are up, the hedges broken down, That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines Like some old antique fragment weathered brown. And where suns peep, in every sheltered place, The little early buttercups unfold A glittering star or two--till many trace The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold. And then a little lamb bolts up behind The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe, And then another, sheltered from the wind, Lies all his length as dead--and lets me go Close bye and never stirs but baking lies, With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.

_Early Nightingale_

When first we hear the shy-come nightingales, They seem to mutter oer their songs in fear, And, climb we eer so soft the spinney rails, All stops as if no bird was anywhere. The kindled bushes with the young leaves thin Let curious eyes to search a long way in, Until impatience cannot see or hear The hidden music; gets but little way Upon the path--when up the songs begin, Full loud a moment and then low again. But when a day or two confirms her stay Boldly she sings and loud for half the day; And soon the village brings the woodman's tale Of having heard the newcome nightingale.

_Winter Walk_

The holly bush, a sober lump of green, Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey, And smiles at winter be it eer so keen With all the leafy luxury of May. And O it is delicious, when the day In winter's loaded garment keenly blows And turns her back on sudden falling snows, To go where gravel pathways creep between Arches of evergreen that scarce let through A single feather of the driving storm; And in the bitterest day that ever blew The walk will find some places still and warm Where dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarm To little birds that flirt and start away.

_The Soldier_

Home furthest off grows dearer from the way; And when the army in the Indias lay Friends' letters coming from his native place Were like old neighbours with their country face. And every opportunity that came Opened the sheet to gaze upon the name Of that loved village where he left his sheep For more contented peaceful folk to keep; And friendly faces absent many a year Would from such letters in his mind appear. And when his pockets, chafing through the case, Wore it quite out ere others took the place, Right loath to be of company bereft He kept the fragments while a bit was left.

_Ploughman Singing_

Here morning in the ploughman's songs is met Ere yet one footstep shows in all the sky, And twilight in the east, a doubt as yet, Shows not her sleeve of grey to know her bye. Woke early, I arose and thought that first In winter time of all the world was I. The old owls might have hallooed if they durst, But joy just then was up and whistled bye A merry tune which I had known full long, But could not to my memory wake it back, Until the ploughman changed it to the song. O happiness, how simple is thy track. --Tinged like the willow shoots, the east's young brow Glows red and finds thee singing at the plough.

_Spring's Messengers_

Where slanting banks are always with the sun The daisy is in blossom even now; And where warm patches by the hedges run The cottager when coming home from plough Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set. Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met Setting up little tents about the fields In sheltered spots.--Primroses when they get Behind the wood's old roots, where ivy shields Their crimpled, curdled leaves, will shine and hide. Cart ruts and horses' footings scarcely yield A slur for boys, just crizzled and that's all. Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side, And snow in scarce a feather's seen to fall.

_Letter in Verse_

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain For the mere joy of riding back again, When summer from the meadow carts the hay And school hours leave them half a day to play; So I with leisure on three sides a sheet Of foolscap dance with poesy's measured feet, Just to ride post upon the wings of time And kill a care, to friendship turned in rhyme. The muse's gallop hurries me in sport With much to read and little to divert, And I, amused, with less of wit than will, Run till I tire.--And so to cheat her still. Like children running races who shall be First in to touch the orchard wall or tree, The last half way behind, by distance vext, Turns short, determined to be first the next; So now the muse has run me hard and long-- I'll leave at once her races and her song; And, turning round, laugh at the letter's close And beat her out by ending it in prose.

_Snow Storm_

What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps Incessant batter at the window pane, Making our comfort feel as sweet again; And in the morning, when the tempest drops, At every cottage door mountainous heaps Of snow lie drifted, that all entrance stops Untill the beesom and the shovel gain The path, and leave a wall on either side. The shepherd rambling valleys white and wide With new sensations his old memory fills, When hedges left at night, no more descried, Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills, And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.

The boy that goes to fodder with surprise Walks oer the gate he opened yesternight. The hedges all have vanished from his eyes; Een some tree tops the sheep could reach to bite. The novel scene emboldens new delight, And, though with cautious steps his sports begin, He bolder shuffles the huge hills of snow, Till down he drops and plunges to the chin, And struggles much and oft escape to win-- Then turns and laughs but dare not further go; For deep the grass and bushes lie below, Where little birds that soon at eve went in With heads tucked in their wings now pine for day And little feel boys oer their heads can stray.

_Firwood_

The fir trees taper into twigs and wear The rich blue green of summer all the year, Softening the roughest tempest almost calm And offering shelter ever still and warm To the small path that towels underneath, Where loudest winds--almost as summer's breath-- Scarce fan the weed that lingers green below When others out of doors are lost in frost and snow. And sweet the music trembles on the ear As the wind suthers through each tiny spear, Makeshifts for leaves; and yet, so rich they show, Winter is almost summer where they grow.

_Grasshoppers_

Grasshoppers go in many a thumming spring And now to stalks of tasseled sow-grass cling, That shakes and swees awhile, but still keeps straight; While arching oxeye doubles with his weight. Next on the cat-tail-grass with farther bound He springs, that bends until they touch the ground.

_Field Path_

The beams in blossom with their spots of jet Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met; The level meadow grass was in the swath; The hedge briar rose hung right across the path, White over with its flowers--the grass that lay Bleaching beneath the twittering heat to hay Smelt so deliciously, the puzzled bee Went wondering where the honey sweets could be; And passer-bye along the level rows Stoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.

_Country Letter_