Chapter 9

The pranking bat its nighty circlet makes; The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew Oer meadows dew-besprent; and beetle wakes Enquiries ever new, Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain, As wanting to pursue His homeward path again.

Hark to the melody of distant bells That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds By fitful starts, then musically swells Oer the dun 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, Then scour the dewy plain.

How sweet the soothing calm that smoothly stills Oer 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 cheered me when a boy. Play--pastime--all time's blotting pen concealed, 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; It loves in quiet moods to sympathize, And meet vibrating joys Oer nature's pleasant things; nor will it deem Pastime the muse employs A vain obtrusive theme.

_A World for Love_

Oh, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care; Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair; Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear, That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near.

And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe, How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go; Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a grassy blade Had eer been bent by Trouble's feet, and Love thy pillow made.

For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime, And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty's happy clime; And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood, And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good.

And there to make a cot unknown to any care and pain, And there to shut the door alone on singing wind and rain-- Far, far away from all the world, more rude than rain or wind, Oh, who could wish a sweeter home, or better place to find?

Than thus to love and live with thee, thou beautiful delight! Than thus to live and love with thee the summer day and night! The Earth itself, where thou hadst rest, would surely smile to see Herself grow Eden once again, possest of Love and thee.

_Love_

Love, though it is not chill and cold, But burning like eternal fire, Is yet not of approaches bold, Which gay dramatic tastes admire. Oh timid love, more fond than free, In daring song is ill pourtrayed, Where, as in war, the devotee By valour wins each captive maid;--

Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee, As they could tell each other's mind; Where ruby lips are kissed as free, As flowers are by the summer wind. No! gentle love, that timid dream, With hopes and fears at foil and play, Works like a skiff against the stream, And thinking most finds least to say.

It lives in blushes and in sighs, In hopes for which no words are found; Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes, The tongue is left without a sound. The pert and forward things that dare Their talk in every maiden's ear, Feel no more than their shadows there-- Mere things of form, with nought of fear.

True passion, that so burns to plead, Is timid as the dove's disguise; Tis for the murder-aiming gleed To dart at every thing that flies. True love, it is no daring bird, But like the little timid wren, That in the new-leaved thorns of spring Shrinks farther from the sight of men.

The idol of his musing mind, The worship of his lonely hour, Love woos her in the summer wind, And tells her name to every flower; But in her sight, no open word Escapes, his fondness to declare; The sighs by beauty's magic stirred Are all that speak his passion there.

_Nature's Hymn to the Deity_

All nature owns with one accord The great and universal Lord: The sun proclaims him through the day, The moon when daylight drops away, The very darkness smiles to wear The stars that show us God is there, On moonlight seas soft gleams the sky And "God is with us" waves reply.

Winds breathe from God's abode "we come," Storms louder own God is their home, And thunder yet with louder call, Sounds "God is mightiest over all"; Till earth right loath the proof to miss Echoes triumphantly "He is," And air and ocean makes reply, God reigns on earth, in air and sky.

All nature owns with one accord The great and universal Lord: Insect and bird and tree and flower-- The witnesses of every hour-- Are pregnant with his prophesy And "God is with us" all reply. The first link in the mighty plan Is still--and all upbraideth man.

_Decay_

O Poesy is on the wane, For Fancy's visions all unfitting; I hardly know her face again, Nature herself seems on the flitting. The fields grow old and common things, The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowing; And spots, where still a beauty clings, Are sighing "going! all a-going!" O Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again.

The bank with brambles overspread, And little molehills round about it, Was more to me than laurel shades, With paths of gravel finely clouted; And streaking here and streaking there, Through shaven grass and many a border, With rutty lanes had no compare, And heaths were in a richer order. But Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again.

I sat beside the pasture stream, When Beauty's self was sitting by, The fields did more than Eden seem Nor could I tell the reason why. I often drank when not adry To pledge her health in draughts divine; Smiles made it nectar from the sky, Love turned een water into wine. O Poesy is on the wane, I cannot find her face again.

The sun those mornings used to find, Its clouds were other-country mountains, And heaven looked downward on the mind, Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains. Those heavens are gone, the mountains grey Turned mist--the sun, a homeless ranger, Pursues alone his naked way, Unnoticed like a very stranger. O Poesy is on the wane, Nor love nor joy is mine again.

Love's sun went down without a frown, For very joy it used to grieve us; I often think the West is gone, Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us. The stream it is a common stream, Where we on Sundays used to ramble, The sky hangs oer a broken dream, The bramble's dwindled to a bramble! O Poesy is on the wane, I cannot find her haunts again.

Mere withered stalks and fading trees, And pastures spread with hills and rushes, Are all my fading vision sees; Gone, gone are rapture's flooding gushes! When mushrooms they were fairy bowers, Their marble pillars overswelling, And Danger paused to pluck the flowers That in their swarthy rings were dwelling. Yes, Poesy is on the wane, Nor joy nor fear is mine again.

Aye, Poesy hath passed away, And Fancy's visions undeceive us; The night hath ta'en the place of day, And why should passing shadows grieve us? I thought the flowers upon the hills Were flowers from Adam's open gardens; But I have had my summer thrills, And I have had my heart's rewardings. So Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again.

And Friendship it hath burned away, Like to a very ember cooling, A make-believe on April day That sent the simple heart a-fooling; Mere jesting in an earnest way, Deceiving on and still deceiving; And Hope is but a fancy-play, And Joy the art of true believing; For Poesy is on the wane, O could I feel her faith again!

_The Cellar Door_

By the old tavern door on the causey there lay A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray, And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a drop As dry as the cinders that lay in his shop; And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun, Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun. He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and hone Till he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone; So ere he could work--though he'd lost the whole day-- He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.

The cellar was empty, each barrel was drained To its dregs--and Sir John like a rebel remained In the street--for removal too powerful and large For two or three topers to take into charge. Odd zooks, said a gipsey, with bellows to mend, Had I strength I would just be for helping a friend To walk on his legs: but a child in the street Had as much power as he to put John on his feet. Then up came the blacksmith: Sir Barley, said he, I should just like to storm your old tower for a spree;

And my strength for your strength and bar your renown I'd soon try your spirit by cracking your crown. And the cobbler he tuckt up his apron and spit In his hands for a burster--but devil a bit Would he move--so as yet they made nothing of land; For there lay the knight like a whale in the sand. Said the tinker: If I could but drink of his vein I should just be as strong and as stubborn again. Push along, said the toper, the cellar's adry: There's nothing to moisten the mouth of a fly.

Says the host, We shall burn out with thirst, he's so big. There's a cag of small swipes half as sour as a wig. In such like extremes, why, extremes will come pat; So let's go and wet all our whistles with that. Says the gipsey, May I never bottom a chair If I drink of small swipes while Sir John's lying there. And the blacksmith he threw off his apron and swore Small swipes should bemoisten his gullet no more: Let it out on the floor for the dry cock-a-roach-- And he held up his hammer with threatens to broach

Sir John in his castle without leave or law And suck out his blood with a reed or a straw Ere he'd soak at the swipes--and he turned him to start, Till the host for high treason came down a full quart. Just then passed the dandy and turned up his nose: They'd fain have him shove, but he looked at his clothes And nipt his nose closer and twirled his stick round And simpered, Tis nuisance to lie on the ground. But Bacchus, he laughed from the old tavern sign, Saying, Go on, thou shadow, and let the sun shine.

Then again they all tried, and the tinker he swore That the hogshead had grown twice as heavy or more. Nay nay, said the toper, and reeled as he spoke, We're all getting weak, that's the end of the joke. The ploughman came up and cut short his old tune, Hallooed "woi" to his horses and though it was June Said he'd help them an hour ere he'd keep them adry; Well done, said the blacksmith with hopes running high; He moves, and, by jingo, success to the plough! Aye aye, said the cobbler, we'll conquer him now.

The hogshead rolled forward, the toper fell back, And the host laughed aloud as his sides they would crack To see the old tinker's toil make such a gap In his coat as to rend it from collar to flap. But the tinker he grumbled and cried Fiddle-dee! This garment hath been an old tenant with me; And a needle and thread with a little good skill When I've leisure will make it stand more weathers still. Then crack went his breeks from the hip to the knee With his thrusting--no matter; for nothing cared he.

So long as Sir John rolled along to the door, He's a chip of our block, said the blacksmith, and swore; And as sure as I live to drive nails in a shoe He shall have at my cost a full pitcher or two. And the toper he hiccuped--which hindered an oath-- So long as he'd credit, he'd pitcher them both. But the host stopt to hint when he'd ordered the dray Sir Barleycorn's order was purchase and pay. And now the old knight is imprisoned and ta'en To waste in the tavern man's cellar again.

And now, said the blacksmith, let forfeits come first For the insult swipes offered, or his hoops I will burst. Here it is, my old hearties--Then drink your thirst full, Said the host, for the stingo is worth a strong pull. Never fear for your legs if they're broken to-day; Winds only blow straws, dust, and feathers away. But the cask that is full, like a giant he lies, And giants alone can his spirits capsize. If he lies in the path, though a king's coming bye, John Barleycorn's mighty and there he will lie.

Then the toper sat down with a hiccup and felt If he'd still an odd coin in his pocket to melt, And he made a wry face, for his pocket was bare. --But he laughed and danced up, What, old boy, are you there? When he felt that a stiver had got to his knee Through a hole in his fob, and right happy was he. Says the tinker, I've brawled till no breath I have got And not met with twopence to purchase a pot. Says the toper, I've powder to charge a long gun, And a stiver I've found when I thought I'd got none;

So helping a thirsty old friend in his need Is my duty--take heart, thou art welcome indeed. Then the smith with his tools in Sir John made a breach, And the toper he hiccuped and ended his speech; And pulled at the quart, till the snob he declared When he went to drink next that the bottom was bared. No matter for that, said the toper, and grinned; I had but a soak and neer rested for wind. That's the law, said the smith, with a look rather vexed, But the quart was a forfeit; so pay for the next.

Thus they talked of their skill and their labour till noon When the sober man's toil was exactly half done, And there the plough lay--people hardly could pass And the horses let loose polished up the short grass And browsed on the bottle of flags lying there, By the gipsey's old budget, for mending a chair. The miller's horse tied to the old smithy door Stood stamping his feet, by the flies bitten sore, Awaiting the smith as he wanted a shoe; And he stampt till another fell off and made two:

Till the miller, expecting that all would get loose, Went to seek him and cursed him outright for a goose; But he dipt his dry beak in the mug once or twice And forgot all his passion and toil in a trice. And the flybitten horse at the old smithy post Might stamp till his shoes and his legs they were lost. He sung his old songs and forgot his old mill-- Blow winds high or low, she might rest her at will. And the cobbler, in spite of his bustle for pelf, Left the shop all the day to take care of itself.

And the toper who carried his house on his head, No wife to be teazing, no bairns to be fed, Would sit out the week or the month or the year Or a life-time so long as he'd credit for beer. The ploughman he talked of his skill as divine, How he could plough thurrows as straight as a line; And the blacksmith he swore, had he but the command, He could shoe the king's hunter the best in the land; And the cobbler declared, was his skill but once seen, He should soon get an order for shoes from the queen.

But the tinker he swore he could beat them all three, For gi' me a pair of old bellows, says he, And I'll make them roar out like the wind in a storm And make them blow fire out of coal hardly warm. The toper said nothing but wished the quart full And swore he could toss it all off at a pull. Have one, said the tinker; but wit was away, When the bet was to bind him he'd nothing to pay. And thus in the face of life's sun-and-shower weather They drank, bragged, and sung, and got merry together.

The sun he went down--the last gleam from his brow Flung a smile of repose on the holiday plough; The glooms they approached, and the dews like a rain Fell thick and hung pearls on the old sorrel mane Of the horse that the miller had brought to be shod, And the morning awoke, saw a sight rather odd-- For a bit of the halter still hung at the door, Bit through by the horse now at feed on the moor; And the old tinker's budget lay still in the weather, While all kept on singing and drinking together.

_The Flitting_

I've left my own old home of homes, Green fields and every pleasant place; The summer like a stranger comes, I pause and hardly know her face. I miss the hazel's happy green, The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms, Where envy's sneer was never seen, Where staring malice never comes.

I miss the heath, its yellow furze, Molehills and rabbit tracks that lead Through beesom, ling, and teazel burrs That spread a wilderness indeed; The woodland oaks and all below That their white powdered branches shield, The mossy paths: the very crow Croaks music in my native field.

I sit me in my corner chair That seems to feel itself from home, And hear bird music here and there From hawthorn hedge and orchard come; I hear, but all is strange and new: I sat on my old bench in June, The sailing puddock's shrill "peelew" On Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.

I walk adown the narrow lane, The nightingale is singing now, But like to me she seems at loss For Royce Wood and its shielding bough. I lean upon the window sill, The trees and summer happy seem; Green, sunny green they shine, but still My heart goes far away to dream.

Of happiness, and thoughts arise With home-bred pictures many a one, Green lanes that shut out burning skies And old crooked stiles to rest upon; Above them hangs the maple tree, Below grass swells a velvet hill, And little footpaths sweet to see Go seeking sweeter places still,

With bye and bye a brook to cross Oer which a little arch is thrown: No brook is here, I feel the loss From home and friends and all alone. --The stone pit with its shelvy sides Seemed hanging rocks in my esteem; I miss the prospect far and wide From Langley Bush, and so I seem

Alone and in a stranger scene, Far, far from spots my heart esteems, The closen with their ancient green, Heaths, woods, and pastures, sunny streams. The hawthorns here were hung with may, But still they seem in deader green, The sun een seems to lose its way Nor knows the quarter it is in.

I dwell in trifles like a child, I feel as ill becomes a man, And still my thoughts like weedlings wild Grow up to blossom where they can. They turn to places known so long I feel that joy was dwelling there, So home-fed pleasure fills the song That has no present joys to hear.

I read in books for happiness, But books are like the sea to joy, They change--as well give age the glass To hunt its visage when a boy. For books they follow fashions new And throw all old esteems away, In crowded streets flowers never grew, But many there hath died away.

Some sing the pomps of chivalry As legends of the ancient time, Where gold and pearls and mystery Are shadows painted for sublime; But passions of sublimity Belong to plain and simpler things, And David underneath a tree Sought when a shepherd Salem's springs,

Where moss did into cushions spring, Forming a seat of velvet hue, A small unnoticed trifling thing To all but heaven's hailing dew. And David's crown hath passed away, Yet poesy breathes his shepherd-skill, His palace lost--and to this day The little moss is blossoming still.

Strange scenes mere shadows are to me, Vague impersonifying things; I love with my old haunts to be By quiet woods and gravel springs, Where little pebbles wear as smooth As hermits' beads by gentle floods, Whose noises do my spirits soothe And warm them into singing moods.

Here every tree is strange to me, All foreign things where eer I go, There's none where boyhood made a swee Or clambered up to rob a crow. No hollow tree or woodland bower Well known when joy was beating high, Where beauty ran to shun a shower And love took pains to keep her dry,

And laid the sheaf upon the ground To keep her from the dripping grass, And ran for stocks and set them round Till scarce a drop of rain could pass Through; where the maidens they reclined And sung sweet ballads now forgot, Which brought sweet memories to the mind, But here no memory knows them not.

There have I sat by many a tree And leaned oer many a rural stile, And conned my thoughts as joys to me, Nought heeding who might frown or smile. Twas nature's beauty that inspired My heart with rapture not its own, And she's a fame that never tires; How could I feel myself alone?

No, pasture molehills used to lie And talk to me of sunny days, And then the glad sheep resting bye All still in ruminating praise Of summer and the pleasant place And every weed and blossom too Was looking upward in my face With friendship's welcome "how do ye do?"

All tenants of an ancient place And heirs of noble heritage, Coeval they with Adam's race And blest with more substantial age. For when the world first saw the sun These little flowers beheld him too, And when his love for earth begun They were the first his smiles to woo.

There little lambtoe bunches springs In red tinged and begolden dye For ever, and like China kings They come but never seem to die. There may-bloom with its little threads Still comes upon the thorny bowers And neer forgets those prickly heads Like fairy pins amid the flowers.

And still they bloom as on the day They first crowned wilderness and rock, When Abel haply wreathed with may The firstlings of his little flock, And Eve might from the matted thorn To deck her lone and lovely brow Reach that same rose that heedless scorn Misnames as the dog rosey now.

Give me no high-flown fangled things, No haughty pomp in marching chime, Where muses play on golden strings And splendour passes for sublime, Where cities stretch as far as fame And fancy's straining eye can go, And piled until the sky for shame Is stooping far away below.

I love the verse that mild and bland Breathes of green fields and open sky, I love the muse that in her hand Bears flowers of native poesy; Who walks nor skips the pasture brook In scorn, but by the drinking horse Leans oer its little brig to look How far the sallows lean across,

And feels a rapture in her breast Upon their root-fringed grains to mark A hermit morehen's sedgy nest Just like a naiad's summer bark. She counts the eggs she cannot reach Admires the spot and loves it well, And yearns, so nature's lessons teach, Amid such neighbourhoods to dwell.

I love the muse who sits her down Upon the molehill's little lap, Who feels no fear to stain her gown And pauses by the hedgerow gap; Not with that affectation, praise Of song, to sing and never see A field flower grown in all her days Or een a forest's aged tree.

Een here my simple feelings nurse A love for every simple weed, And een this little shepherd's purse Grieves me to cut it up; indeed I feel at times a love and joy For every weed and every thing, A feeling kindred from a boy, A feeling brought with every Spring.

And why? this shepherd's purse that grows In this strange spot, in days gone bye Grew in the little garden rows Of my old home now left; and I Feel what I never felt before, This weed an ancient neighbour here, And though I own the spot no more Its every trifle makes it dear.

The ivy at the parlour end, The woodbine at the garden gate, Are all and each affection's friend That render parting desolate. But times will change and friends must part And nature still can make amends; Their memory lingers round the heart Like life whose essence is its friends.

Time looks on pomp with vengeful mood Or killing apathy's disdain; So where old marble cities stood Poor persecuted weeds remain. She feels a love for little things That very few can feel beside, And still the grass eternal springs Where castles stood and grandeur died.

_Remembrances_