Chapter 7
Dear brother robin this comes from us all With our kind love and could Gip write and all Though but a dog he'd have his love to spare For still he knows and by your corner chair The moment he comes in he lyes him down and seems to fancy you are in the town. This leaves us well in health thank God for that For old acquaintance Sue has kept your hat Which mother brushes ere she lays it bye and every sunday goes upstairs to cry Jane still is yours till you come back agen and neer so much as dances with the men and ned the woodman every week comes in and asks about you kindly as our kin and he with this and goody Thompson sends Remembrances with those of all our friends Father with us sends love untill he hears and mother she has nothing but her tears Yet wishes you like us in health the same and longs to see a letter with your name So loving brother don't forget to write Old Gip lies on the hearth stone every night Mother can't bear to turn him out of doors and never noises now of dirty floors Father will laugh but lets her have her way and Gip for kindness get a double pay So Robin write and let us quickly see You don't forget old friends no more than we Nor let my mother have so much to blame To go three journeys ere your letter came.
_From "January"_
Supper removed, the mother sits, And tells her tales by starts and fits. Not willing to lose time or toil, She knits or sews, and talks the while Something, that may be warnings found To the young listeners gaping round-- Of boys who in her early day Strolled to the meadow-lake to play, Where willows, oer the bank inclined Sheltered the water from the wind, And left it scarcely crizzled oer-- When one sank in, to rise no more! And how, upon a market-night, When not a star bestowed its light, A farmer's shepherd, oer his glass, Forgot that he had woods to pass: And having sold his master's sheep, Was overta'en by darkness deep. How, coming with his startled horse, To where two roads a hollow cross; Where, lone guide when a stranger strays, A white post points four different ways, Beside the woodride's lonely gate A murdering robber lay in wait. The frightened horse, with broken rein, Stood at the stable-door again; But none came home to fill his rack, Or take the saddle from his back; The saddle--it was all he bore-- The man was seen alive no more!-- In her young days, beside the wood, The gibbet in its terror stood: Though now decayed, tis not forgot, But dreaded as a haunted spot.--
She from her memory oft repeats Witches' dread powers and fairy feats: How one has oft been known to prance In cowcribs, like a coach, to France, And ride on sheep-trays from the fold A race-horse speed to Burton-hold; To join the midnight mystery's rout, Where witches meet the yews about: And how, when met with unawares, They turn at once to cats or hares, And race along with hellish flight, Now here, now there, now out of sight!-- And how the other tiny things Will leave their moonlight meadow-rings, And, unperceived, through key-holes creep, When all around have sunk to sleep, To feast on what the cotter leaves,-- Mice are not reckoned greater thieves. They take away, as well as eat, And still the housewife's eye they cheat, In spite of all the folks that swarm In cottage small and larger farm; They through each key-hole pop and pop, Like wasps into a grocer's shop, With all the things that they can win From chance to put their plunder in;-- As shells of walnuts, split in two By crows, who with the kernels flew; Or acorn-cups, by stock-doves plucked, Or egg-shells by a cuckoo sucked; With broad leaves of the sycamore They clothe their stolen dainties oer: And when in cellar they regale, Bring hazel-nuts to hold their ale; With bung-holes bored by squirrels well, To get the kernel from the shell; Or maggots a way out to win, When all is gone that grew within; And be the key-holes eer so high, Rush poles a ladder's help supply. Where soft the climbers fearless tread, On spindles made of spiders' thread. And foul, or fair, or dark the night, Their wild-fire lamps are burning bright: For which full many a daring crime Is acted in the summer-time;-- When glow-worm found in lanes remote Is murdered for its shining coat, And put in flowers, that nature weaves With hollow shapes and silken leaves, Such as the Canterbury bell, Serving for lamp or lantern well; Or, following with unwearied watch The flight of one they cannot match, As silence sliveth upon sleep, Or thieves by dozing watch-dogs creep, They steal from Jack-a-Lantern's tails A light, whose guidance never fails To aid them in the darkest night And guide their plundering steps aright. Rattling away in printless tracks, Some, housed on beetles' glossy backs, Go whisking on--and others hie As fast as loaded moths can fly: Some urge, the morning cock to shun, The hardest gallop mice can run, In chariots, lolling at their ease, Made of whateer their fancies please;-- Things that in childhood's memory dwell-- Scooped crow-pot-stone, or cockle-shell, With wheels at hand of mallow seeds, Where childish sport was stringing beads; And thus equipped, they softly pass Like shadows on the summer-grass, And glide away in troops together Just as the Spring-wind drives a feather. As light as happy dreams they creep, Nor break the feeblest link of sleep: A midge, if in their road a-bed, Feels not the wheels run oer his head, But sleeps till sunrise calls him up, Unconscious of the passing troop,--
Thus dame the winter-night regales With wonder's never-ceasing tales; While in a corner, ill at ease, Or crushing tween their father's knees, The children--silent all the while-- And een repressed the laugh or smile-- Quake with the ague chills of fear, And tremble though they love to hear; Starting, while they the tales recall, At their own shadows on the wall: Till the old clock, that strikes unseen Behind the picture-pasted screen Where Eve and Adam still agree To rob Life's fatal apple-tree, Counts over bed-time's hour of rest, And bids each be sleep's fearful guest. She then her half-told tales will leave To finish on to-morrow's eve;-- The children steal away to bed, And up the ladder softly tread; Scarce daring--from their fearful joys-- To look behind or make a noise; Nor speak a word! but still as sleep They secret to their pillows creep, And whisper oer, in terror's way, The prayers they dare no louder say; Then hide their heads beneath the clothes, And try in vain to seek repose: While yet, to fancy's sleepless eye, Witches on sheep-trays gallop by, And fairies, like a rising spark, Swarm twittering round them in the dark; Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares, And drops upon them unawares.
_November_
The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon; And, if the sun looks through, tis with a face Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon, When done the journey of her nightly race, Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place. For days the shepherds in the fields may be, Nor mark a patch of sky--blindfold they trace, The plains, that seem without a bush or tree, Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.
The timid hare seems half its fears to lose, Crouching and sleeping neath its grassy lair, And scarcely startles, though the shepherd goes Close by its home, and dogs are barking there; The wild colt only turns around to stare At passer by, then knaps his hide again; And moody crows beside the road forbear To fly, though pelted by the passing swain; Thus day seems turned to night, and tries to wake in vain.
The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon, And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light; The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon, And small birds chirp and startle with affright; Much doth it scare the superstitious wight, Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay; While cow-boys think the day a dream of night, And oft grow fearful on their lonely way, Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.
Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings Its murky prison round--then winds wake loud; With sudden stir the startled forest sings Winter's returning song-cloud races cloud. And the horizon throws away its shroud, Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye; Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd, And oer the sameness of the purple sky Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.
At length it comes among the forest oaks, With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high; The scared, hoarse raven on its cradle croaks, And stockdove-flocks in hurried terrors fly, While the blue hawk hangs oer them in the sky.-- The hedger hastens from the storm begun, To seek a shelter that may keep him dry; And foresters low bent, the wind to shun, Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher's muttering gun.
The ploughman hears its humming rage begin, And hies for shelter from his naked toil; Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin, He bends and scampers oer the elting soil, While clouds above him in wild fury boil, And winds drive heavily the beating rain; He turns his back to catch his breath awhile, Then ekes his speed and faces it again, To seek the shepherd's hut beside the rushy plain.
The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheat The melancholy crow--in hurry weaves, Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat, Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves, Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves. There he doth dithering sit, and entertain His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves; Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en, And wishing in his heart twas summer-time again.
Thus wears the month along, in checkered moods, Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms; One hour dies silent oer the sleepy woods, The next wakes loud with unexpected storms; A dreary nakedness the field deforms-- Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight, Lives in the village still about the farms, Where toil's rude uproar hums from morn till night Noises, in which the ears of industry delight.
At length the stir of rural labour's still, And industry her care awhile foregoes; When winter comes in earnest to fulfil His yearly task, at bleak November's close, And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows; When frost locks up the stream in chill delay And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes, For little birds--then toil hath time for play, And nought but threshers' flails awake the dreary day.
_The Fens_
Wandering by the river's edge, I love to rustle through the sedge And through the woods of reed to tear Almost as high as bushes are. Yet, turning quick with shudder chill, As danger ever does from ill, Fear's moment ague quakes the blood, While plop the snake coils in the flood And, hissing with a forked tongue, Across the river winds along. In coat of orange, green, and blue Now on a willow branch I view, Grey waving to the sunny gleam, Kingfishers watch the ripple stream For little fish that nimble bye And in the gravel shallows lie.
Eddies run before the boats, Gurgling where the fisher floats, Who takes advantage of the gale And hoists his handkerchief for sail On osier twigs that form a mast-- While idly lies, nor wanted more, The spirit that pushed him on before.
There's not a hill in all the view, Save that a forked cloud or two Upon the verge of distance lies And into mountains cheats the eyes. And as to trees the willows wear Lopped heads as high as bushes are; Some taller things the distance shrouds That may be trees or stacks or clouds Or may be nothing; still they wear A semblance where there's nought to spare.
Among the tawny tasselled reed The ducks and ducklings float and feed. With head oft dabbing in the flood They fish all day the weedy mud, And tumbler-like are bobbing there, Heels topsy turvy in the air.
The geese in troops come droving up, Nibble the weeds, and take a sup; And, closely puzzled to agree, Chatter like gossips over tea. The gander with his scarlet nose When strife's at height will interpose; And, stretching neck to that and this, With now a mutter, now a hiss, A nibble at the feathers too, A sort of "pray be quiet do," And turning as the matter mends, He stills them into mutual friends; Then in a sort of triumph sings And throws the water oer his wings.
Ah, could I see a spinney nigh, A puddock riding in the sky Above the oaks with easy sail On stilly wings and forked tail, Or meet a heath of furze in flower, I might enjoy a quiet hour, Sit down at rest, and walk at ease, And find a many things to please. But here my fancy's moods admire The naked levels till they tire, Nor een a molehill cushion meet To rest on when I want a seat.
Here's little save the river scene And grounds of oats in rustling green And crowded growth of wheat and beans, That with the hope of plenty leans And cheers the farmer's gazing brow, Who lives and triumphs in the plough-- One sometimes meets a pleasant sward Of swarthy grass; and quickly marred The plough soon turns it into brown, And, when again one rambles down The path, small hillocks burning lie And smoke beneath a burning sky. Green paddocks have but little charms With gain the merchandise of farms; And, muse and marvel where we may, Gain mars the landscape every day-- The meadow grass turned up and copt, The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt, The hearth with fuel to supply For rest to smoke and chatter bye; Giving the joy of home delights, The warmest mirth on coldest nights. And so for gain, that joy's repay, Change cheats the landscape every day, Nor trees nor bush about it grows That from the hatchet can repose, And the horizon stooping smiles Oer treeless fens of many miles. Spring comes and goes and comes again And all is nakedness and fen.
_Spear Thistle_
Where the broad sheepwalk bare and brown [Yields] scant grass pining after showers, And winds go fanning up and down The little strawy bents and nodding flowers, There the huge thistle, spurred with many thorns, The suncrackt upland's russet swells adorns.
Not undevoid of beauty there they come, Armed warriors, waiting neither suns nor showers, Guarding the little clover plots to bloom While sheep nor oxen dare not crop their flowers Unsheathing their own knobs of tawny flowers When summer cometh in her hottest hours.
The pewit, swopping up and down And screaming round the passer bye, Or running oer the herbage brown With copple crown uplifted high, Loves in its clumps to make a home Where danger seldom cares to come.
The yellowhammer, often prest For spot to build and be unseen, Will in its shelter trust her nest When fields and meadows glow with green; And larks, though paths go closely bye, Will in its shade securely lie.
The partridge too, that scarce can trust The open downs to be at rest, Will in its clumps lie down, and dust And prune its horseshoe-circled breast, And oft in shining fields of green Will lay and raise its brood unseen.
The sheep when hunger presses sore May nip the clover round its nest; But soon the thistle wounding sore Relieves it from each brushing guest, That leaves a bit of wool behind, The yellowhammer loves to find.
The horse will set his foot and bite Close to the ground lark's guarded nest And snort to meet the prickly sight; He fans the feathers of her breast-- Yet thistles prick so deep that he Turns back and leaves her dwelling free.
Its prickly knobs the dews of morn Doth bead with dressing rich to see, When threads doth hang from thorn to thorn Like the small spinner's tapestry; And from the flowers a sultry smell Comes that agrees with summer well.
The bee will make its bloom a bed, The humble bee in tawny brown; And one in jacket fringed with red Will rest upon its velvet down When overtaken in the rain, And wait till sunshine comes again.
And there are times when travel goes Along the sheep tracks' beaten ways, Then pleasure many a praise bestows Upon its blossoms' pointed rays, When other things are parched beside And hot day leaves it in its pride.
_Idle Fame_
I would not wish the burning blaze Of fame around a restless world, The thunder and the storm of praise In crowded tumults heard and hurled. I would not be a flower to stand The stare of every passer-bye; But in some nook of fairyland, Seen in the praise of beauty's eye.
_Approaching Night_
O take this world away from me; Its strife I cannot bear to see, Its very praises hurt me more Than een its coldness did before, Its hollow ways torment me now And start a cold sweat on my brow, Its noise I cannot bear to hear, Its joy is trouble to my ear, Its ways I cannot bear to see, Its crowds are solitudes to me. O, how I long to be agen That poor and independent man, With labour's lot from morn to night And books to read at candle light; That followed labour in the field From light to dark when toil could yield Real happiness with little gain, Rich thoughtless health unknown to pain: Though, leaning on my spade to rest, I've thought how richer folks were blest And knew not quiet was the best.
Go with your tauntings, go; Neer think to hurt me so; I'll scoff at your disdain. Cold though the winter blow, When hills are free from snow It will be spring again.
So go, and fare thee well, Nor think ye'll have to tell Of wounded hearts from me, Locked up in your hearts cell. Mine still at home doth dwell In its first liberty.
Bees sip not at one flower, Spring comes not with one shower, Nor shines the sun alone Upon one favoured hour, But with unstinted power Makes every day his own.
And for my freedom's sake With such I'll pattern take, And rove and revel on. Your gall shall never make Me honied paths forsake; So prythee get thee gone.
And when my toil is blest And I find a maid possest Of truth that's not in thee, Like bird that finds its nest I'll stop and take my rest; And love as she loves me.
_Farewell and Defiance to Love_
Love and thy vain employs, away From this too oft deluded breast! No longer will I court thy stay, To be my bosom's teazing guest. Thou treacherous medicine, reckoned pure, Thou quackery of the harassed heart, That kills what it pretends to cure, Life's mountebank thou art.
With nostrums vain of boasted powers, That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave; An asp hid in a group of flowers, That bites and stings when few perceive; Thou mock-truce to the troubled mind, Leading it more in sorrow's way, Freedom, that leaves us more confined, I bid thee hence away.
Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyond The resolution reason gave? Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond, That kept me once thy quiet slave, And made thy snare a spider's thread, Which een my breath can break in twain; Nor will I be, like Sampson, led To trust thy wiles again.
I took thee as my staff to guide Me on the road I did pursue, And when my weakness most relied Upon its strength it broke in two. I took thee as my friendly host That counsel might in dangers show, But when I needed thee the most I found thou wert my foe.
Tempt me no more with rosy cheeks, Nor daze my reason with bright eyes; I'm wearied with thy painted freaks, And sicken at such vanities: Be roses fine as eer they will, They, with the meanest, fade and die, And eyes, though thronged with darts to kill, Share like mortality. Feed the young bard, that madly sips His nectar-draughts from folly's flowers, Bright eyes, fair cheeks, and ruby lips, Till muses melt to honey showers; Lure him to thrum thy empty lays, While flattery listens to the chimes, Till words themselves grow sick with praise And stop for want of rhymes.
Let such be still thy paramours, And chaunt love's old and idle tune, Robbing the spring of all its flowers, And heaven of all her stars and moon, To gild with dazzling similes Blind folly's vain and empty lay: I'm sobered from such phantasies, So get thee hence away.
Nor bid me sigh for mine own cost, Nor count its loss, for mine annoy, Nor say my stubbornness hath lost A paradise of dainty joy: I'll not believe thee, till I know That sober reason turns an ape, And acts the harlequin, to show That cares in every shape,
Heart-achings, sighs, and grief-wrung tears, Shame-blushes at betrayed distress, Dissembled smiles, and jealous fears, Are nought but real happiness: Then will I mourn what now I brave, And suffer Celia's quirks to be (Like a poor fate-bewilder'd slave,) The rulers of my destiny.
I'll weep and sigh wheneer she wills To frown, and when she deigns to smile It shall be cure for all my ills, And, foolish still, I'll laugh the while; But till that comes, I'll bless the rules Experience taught, and deem it wise To hold thee as the game of fools, And all thy tricks despise.
_To John Milton_
_"From his honoured friend, William Davenant"_
Poet of mighty power, I fain Would court the muse that honoured thee, And, like Elisha's spirit, gain A part of thy intensity; And share the mantle which she flung Around thee, when thy lyre was strung.
Though faction's scorn at first did shun With coldness thy inspired song, Though clouds of malice passed thy sun, They could not hide it long; Its brightness soon exhaled away Dank night, and gained eternal day.
The critics' wrath did darkly frown Upon thy muse's mighty lay; But blasts that break the blossom down Do only stir the bay; And thine shall flourish, green and long, With the eternity of song.
Thy genius saw, in quiet mood, Gilt fashion's follies pass thee by, And, like the monarch of the wood, Towered oer it to the sky, Where thou couldst sing of other spheres, And feel the fame of future years.
Though bitter sneers and stinging scorns Did throng the muse's dangerous way, Thy powers were past such little thorns, They gave thee no dismay; The scoffer's insult passed thee by, Thou smild'st and mad'st him no reply.
Envy will gnaw its heart away To see thy genius gather root; And as its flowers their sweets display Scorn's malice shall be mute; Hornets that summer warmed to fly, Shall at the death of summer die.
Though friendly praise hath but its hour. And little praise with thee hath been; The bay may lose its summer flower, But still its leaves are green; And thine, whose buds are on the shoot, Shall only fade to change to fruit.
Fame lives not in the breath of words, In public praises' hue and cry; The music of these summer birds Is silent in a winter sky, When thine shall live and flourish on, Oer wrecks where crowds of fames are gone.
The ivy shuns the city wall, When busy clamorous crowds intrude, And climbs the desolated hall In silent solitude; The time-worn arch, the fallen dome, Are roots for its eternal home.
The bard his glory neer receives Where summer's common flowers are seen, But winter finds it when she leaves The laurel only green; And time from that eternal tree, Shall weave a wreath to honour thee;
A sunny wreath for poets meet, From Helicon's immortal soil, Where sacred Time with pilgrim feet Walks forth to worship, not to spoil, A wreath which Fame creates and bears, And deathless genius only heirs.
Nought but thy ashes shall expire; Thy genius, at thy obsequies, Shall kindle up its living fire And light the muse's skies; Ay, it shall rise, and shine, and be A sun in song's posterity.
_The Vanities of Life_
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.--_Solomon_
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 Is 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.