Chapter 8

Dost think that pride exalts Thyself in other's 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 the display? --The country magistrate, The meanest 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, Like toys of golden glow That's 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 oer 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 house and in land? Go, read the fairy lure To twist a cord in 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 slipping eels, That slide the firmest hold: Though sweet as sleep with health Thy lulling luck may be, Pride may oerstride thy wealth, And check prosperity.

Dost think that beauty's power Life 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; View but the clearest sky, And thou shalt find a cloud; Nor call each face ye 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 ungive, 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 an harlot's smile, And by her wiles are led, Plays, with a sword the while Hung dropping oer his head.

Dost doubt my warning song? Then doubt the sun gives light, Doubt truth to teach thee 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 eer 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.

Wouldst 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.

_Death_

Why should man's high aspiring mind Burn in him with so proud a breath, When all his haughty views can find In this world yields to death? The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise, The rich, the poor, the great, and small, Are each but worm's anatomies To strew his quiet hall.

Power may make many earthly gods, Where gold and bribery's guilt prevails, But death's unwelcome, honest odds Kick o'er the unequal scales. The flattered great may clamours raise Of power, and their own weakness hide, But death shall find unlooked-for ways To end the farce of pride,

An arrow hurtled eer so high, From een a giant's sinewy strength, In Time's untraced eternity Goes but a pigmy length; Nay, whirring from the tortured string, With all its pomp of hurried flight, Tis by the skylark's little wing Outmeasured in its height.

Just so man's boasted strength and power Shall fade before death's lightest stroke, Laid lower than the meanest flower, Whose pride oer-topt the oak; And he who, like a blighting blast, Dispeopled worlds with war's alarms Shall be himself destroyed at last By poor despised worms.

Tyrants in vain their powers secure, And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown, For unawed death at last is sure To sap the babels down. A stone thrown upward to the sky Will quickly meet the ground agen; So men-gods of earth's vanity Shall drop at last to men;

And Power and Pomp their all resign, Blood-purchased thrones and banquet halls. Fate waits to sack Ambition's shrine As bare as prison walls, Where the poor suffering wretch bows down To laws a lawless power hath passed; And pride, and power, and king, and clown Shall be Death's slaves at last.

Time, the prime minister of Death! There's nought can bribe his honest will. He stops the richest tyrant's breath And lays his mischief still. Each wicked scheme for power all stops, With grandeurs false and mock display, As eve's shades from high mountain tops Fade with the rest away.

Death levels all things in his march; Nought can resist his mighty strength; The palace proud, triumphal arch, Shall mete its shadow's length. The rich, the poor, one common bed Shall find in the unhonoured grave, Where weeds shall crown alike the head Of tyrant and of slave.

_The Fallen Elm_

Old elm, that murmured in our chimney top The sweetest anthem autumn ever made And into mellow whispering calms would drop When showers fell on thy many coloured shade And when dark tempests mimic thunder made-- While darkness came as it would strangle light With the black tempest of a winter night That rocked thee like a cradle in thy root-- How did I love to hear the winds upbraid Thy strength without--while all within was mute. It seasoned comfort to our hearts' desire, We felt thy kind protection like a friend And edged our chairs up closer to the fire, Enjoying comfort that was never penned. Old favourite tree, thou'st seen time's changes lower, Though change till now did never injure thee; For time beheld thee as her sacred dower And nature claimed thee her domestic tree. Storms came and shook thee many a weary hour, Yet stedfast to thy home thy roots have been; Summers of thirst parched round thy homely bower Till earth grew iron--still thy leaves were green. The children sought thee in thy summer shade And made their playhouse rings of stick and stone; The mavis sang and felt himself alone While in thy leaves his early nest was made. And I did feel his happiness mine own, Nought heeding that our friendship was betrayed, Friend not inanimate--though stocks and stones There are, and many formed of flesh and bones. Thou owned a language by which hearts are stirred Deeper than by a feeling clothed in word, And speakest now what's known of every tongue, Language of pity and the force of wrong. What cant assumes, what hypocrites will dare, Speaks home to truth and shows it what they are. I see a picture which thy fate displays And learn a lesson from thy destiny; Self-interest saw thee stand in freedom's ways-- So thy old shadow must a tyrant be. Tnou'st heard the knave, abusing those in power, Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free; Thou'st sheltered hypocrites in many a shower, That when in power would never shelter thee. Thou'st heard the knave supply his canting powers With wrong's illusions when he wanted friends; That bawled for shelter when he lived in showers And when clouds vanished made thy shade amends-- With axe at root he felled thee to the ground And barked of freedom--O I hate the sound Time hears its visions speak,--and age sublime Hath made thee a disciple unto time. --It grows the cant term of enslaving tools To wrong another by the name of right; Thus came enclosure--ruin was its guide, But freedom's cottage soon was thrust aside And workhouse prisons raised upon the site. Een nature's dwellings far away from men, The common heath, became the spoiler's prey; The rabbit had not where to make his den And labour's only cow was drove away. No matter--wrong was right and right was wrong, And freedom's bawl was sanction to the song. --Such was thy ruin, music-making elm; The right of freedom was to injure thine: As thou wert served, so would they overwhelm In freedom's name the little that is mine. And there are knaves that brawl for better laws And cant of tyranny in stronger power Who glut their vile unsatiated maws And freedom's birthright from the weak devour.

_Sport in the Meadows_

Maytime is to the meadows coming in, And cowslip peeps have gotten eer so big, And water blobs and all their golden kin Crowd round the shallows by the striding brig. Daisies and buttercups and ladysmocks Are all abouten shining here and there, Nodding about their gold and yellow locks Like morts of folken flocking at a fair. The sheep and cows are crowding for a share And snatch the blossoms in such eager haste That basket-bearing children running there Do think within their hearts they'll get them all And hoot and drive them from their graceless waste As though there wa'n't a cowslip peep to spare. --For they want some for tea and some for wine And some to maken up a cuckaball To throw across the garland's silken line That reaches oer the street from wall to wall. --Good gracious me, how merrily they fare: One sees a fairer cowslip than the rest, And off they shout--the foremost bidding fair To get the prize--and earnest half and jest The next one pops her down--and from her hand Her basket falls and out her cowslips all Tumble and litter there--the merry band In laughing friendship round about her fall To helpen gather up the littered flowers That she no loss may mourn. And now the wind In frolic mood among the merry hours Wakens with sudden start and tosses off Some untied bonnet on its dancing wings; Away they follow with a scream and laugh, And aye the youngest ever lags behind, Till on the deep lake's very bank it hings. They shout and catch it and then off they start And chase for cowslips merry as before, And each one seems so anxious at the heart As they would even get them all and more. One climbs a molehill for a bunch of may, One stands on tiptoe for a linnet's nest And pricks her hand and throws her flowers away And runs for plantin leaves to have it drest. So do they run abouten all the day And teaze the grass-hid larks from getting rest. --Scarce give they time in their unruly haste To tie a shoestring that the grass unties-- And thus they run the meadows' bloom to waste, Till even comes and dulls their phantasies, When one finds losses out to stifle smiles Of silken bonnet-strings--and utters sigh Oer garments renten clambering over stiles. Yet in the morning fresh afield they hie, Bidding the last day's troubles all goodbye; When red pied cow again their coming hears, And ere they clap the gate she tosses up Her head and hastens from the sport she fears: The old yoe calls her lamb nor cares to stoop To crop a cowslip in their company. Thus merrily the little noisy troop Along the grass as rude marauders hie, For ever noisy and for ever gay While keeping in the meadows holiday.

_Death_

The winds and waters are in his command, Held as a courser in the rider's hand. He lets them loose, they triumph at his will: He checks their course and all is calm and still. Life's hopes waste all to nothingness away As showers at night wash out the steps of day.

* * * * *

The tyrant, in his lawless power deterred, Bows before death, tame as a broken sword. One dyeth in his strength and, torn from ease, Groans in death pangs like tempests in the trees. Another from the bitterness of clay Falls calm as storms drop on an autumn day, With noiseless speed as swift as summer light Death slays and keeps her weapons out of sight.

The tyrants that do act the God in clay And for earth's glories throw the heavens away, Whose breath in power did like to thunder sear, When anger hurried on the heels of fear, Whose rage planned hosts of murders at a breath-- Here in sound silence sheath their rage in death.

Their feet, that crushed down freedom to its grave And felt the very earth they trod a slave, How quiet here they lie in death's cold arms Without the power to crush the feeble worms Who spite of all the dreadful fears they made Creep there to conquer and are not afraid.

_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 thy 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 oer, 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

Oer 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 pendent haws,

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

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

While oer the pleachy lands of mellow brown, The mower's stubbling scythe clogs to his foot The ever eking whisp, With sharp and sudden jerk,

Till into formal rows the russet shocks Crowd the blank field to thatch time-weathered 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 bye 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 thine, Not broken inharmoniously, as now That lone and vagrant bee Booms faint with wearp 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 sicken 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 parch-lipped summer pines in drought away, Then from thine ivied trance Awake to glories new.

Summer Images

Now swarthy summer, by rude health embrowned, Precedence takes of rosy fingered spring; And laughing joy, with wild flowers pranked and crowned, A wild and giddy thing, And health robust, from every care unbound, Come on the zephyr's wing, And cheer the toiling clown.

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 smiles 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 mirth 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 ears with mellow horn.

The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe, Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks; There 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.

There 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 oerflow, 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.

And 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; Where passions vain and rude By calm reflection, 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;

And green lane traverse heedless where it goes Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies Rude battered finger post, that stooping shows Where the snug mystery lies; And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown, Clears 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 yminted new;

And mark by rustic bridge, oer 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:

Then thread the sunny valley laced with streams, Or forests rude, and the oershadowed brims Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams, And streaks 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 oer 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 bents and 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:

And sawning boy by tanning corn espy, With clapping noise to startle birds away, And hear him bawl to every passer by To know the hour of day; And see the uncradled breeze, refreshed and strong, With waking blossoms play, And breathe eolian song.

I love the south-west wind, or low or loud, And not the less when sudden drops of rain Moisten my pallid 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 oer the mingling scenes Far spreads the laughing sky.

And wind-enamoured aspin--mark the leaves Turn up their silver lining to the sun, And list! the brustling noise, that oft deceives, And makes the sheep-boy run; The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers, He thinks the rain 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.