Part 3

Yet though each share was very small, We own’d, when it was eaten, Being so little for us all Did its fine flavour heighten.

The tear was in our parent’s eye, It seem’d quite out of season; When we ask’d wherefore she did cry, She thus explain’d the reason:--

“The cause, my children, I may say, Was joy, and not dejection; The peach, which made you all so gay, Gave rise to this reflection:

“It’s many a mother’s lot to share, Seven hungry children viewing, A morsel of the coarsest fare, As I this peach was doing.”

XXI

When the Arts in their infancy were, In a fable of old ’tis express’d A wise magpie constructed that rare Little house for young birds, call’d a nest.

This was talk’d of the whole country round; You might hear it on every bough sung, “Now no longer upon the rough ground Will fond mothers brood over their young:

“For the magpie with exquisite skill Has invented a moss-cover’d cell Within which a whole family will In the utmost security dwell.”

To her mate did each female bird say, “Let us fly to the magpie, my dear; If she will but teach us the way, A nest we will build us up here.

“It’s a thing that’s close arch’d overhead, With a hole made to creep out and in; We, my bird, might make just a bed If we only knew how to begin.”

* * * * *

To the magpie soon every bird went And in modest terms made their request, That she would be pleased to consent To teach them to build up a nest.

She replied, “I will show you the way, So observe everything that I do: First two sticks ’cross each other I lay--” “To be sure,” said the crow, “why I knew

“It must be begun with two sticks, And I thought that they crossed should be.” Said the pie, “Then some straw and moss mix In the way you now see done by me.”

“O yes, certainly,” said the jackdaw, “That must follow, of course, I have thought; Though I never before building saw, I guess’d that, without being taught.”

“More moss, more straw, and feathers, I place In this manner,” continued the pie. “Yes, no doubt, madam, that is the case; Though no builder myself, so thought I.”

* * * * *

Whatever she taught them beside, In his turn every bird of them said, Though the nest-making art he ne’er tried He had just such a thought in his head.

Still the pie went on showing her art, Till a nest she had built up half-way; She no more of her skill would impart, But in her anger went fluttering away.

And this speech in their hearing she made, As she perch’d o’er their heads on a tree: “If ye all were well skill’d in my trade, Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?”

When a scholar is willing to learn, He with silent submission should hear; Too late they their folly discern, The effect to this day does appear.

For whenever a pie’s nest you see, Her charming warm canopy view, All birds’ nests but hers seem to be A magpie’s nest just cut in two.[A]

[A] I beg to inform my young readers that the magpie is the only bird that builds a top to the nest for her young.

XXII

O hush, my little baby brother! Sleep, my love, upon my knee, What though, dear child, we’ve lost our mother? That can never trouble thee.

You are but ten weeks old to-morrow; What can you know of our loss? The house is full enough of sorrow; Little baby, don’t be cross.

Peace, cry not so, my dearest love! Hush, my baby bird, lie still,-- He’s quiet now, he does not move, Fast asleep is little Will.

My only solace, only joy, Since the sad day I lost my mother, Is nursing her own Willy boy, My little orphan brother.

XXIII

A little boy with crumbs of bread Many a hungry sparrow fed. It was a child of little sense Who this kind bounty did dispense; For suddenly ’twas from them torn, And all the birds were left forlorn In a hard time of frost and snow, Not knowing where for food to go. He would no longer give them bread, Because he had observed, he said, A great black bird, a rook by name, That sometimes to the window came And took away a small bird’s share. So foolish Henry did not care What became of the great rook That from the little sparrows took, Now and then, as ’twere by stealth, A part of their abundant wealth;

Nor ever more would feed his sparrows. _Thus ignorance a kind heart narrows._ I wish I had been there, I would Have told the child, rooks live by food In the same way the sparrows do. I also would have told him too Birds act by instinct, and ne’er can Attain the rectitude of man. Nay, that even when distress Does on poor human nature press, We need not be too strict in seeing The failings of a fellow-being.

XXIV

Horatio, of ideal courage vain, Was flourishing in air his father’s cane, And, as the fumes of valour swell’d his pate, Now thought himself _this_ hero, and now _that_: “And now,” he cried, “I will Achilles be; My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee! Now I’ll be Hector, when his angry blade A lane through heaps of slaughter’d Grecians made! And now my deeds, still, braver I’ll evince, I am no less than Edward the Black Prince. Give way, ye coward French!” As thus he spoke, And aim’d in fancy a sufficient stroke To fix the fate of Crecy or Poictiers (The Muse relates the Hero’s fate with tears), He struck his milk-white hand against a nail, Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.

Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown, That in the tented field so late was shown? Achilles weeps, great Hector hangs his head, And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.

XXV

When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed, And her together.

A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flush’d her spirit. I know not by what name beside It may be call’d; if ’twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was train’d in Nature’s school, Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs is hard to bind, A hawk’s keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning?

XXVI

High-born Helen, round your dwelling These twenty years I’ve paced in vain; Haughty beauty, thy lover’s duty Hath been to glory in his pain.

High-born Helen, proudly telling Stories of thy cold disdain; I starve, I die, now you comply, And I no longer can complain.

These twenty years I’ve lived on tears, Dwelling for ever on a frown; On sighs I’ve fed, your scorn my bread; I perish now you kind are grown.

Can I, who loved my beloved, But for the scorn “was in her eye,” Can I be moved for my beloved When she “returns me sigh for sigh?”

In stately pride, by my bedside, High-born Helen’s portrait’s hung; Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays Are nightly to the portrait sung.

To that I weep, nor ever sleep, Complaining all night long to her: _Helen, grown old, no longer cold, Said_, “You to all men I prefer.”

XXVII

Abject, stooping, old, and wan, See yon wretched beggar man; Once a father’s hopeful heir, Once a mother’s tender care. When too young to understand, He but scorch’d his little hand By the candle’s flaming light Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright; Clasping fond her darling round, A thousand kisses heal’d the wound: Now, abject, stooping, old, and wan, No mother tends the beggar man.

Then nought too good for him to wear, With cherub face and flaxen hair, In fancy’s choicest gauds array’d, Cap of lace with rose to aid; Milk-white hat and feather blue; Shoes of red; and coral too; With silver bells to please his ear, And charm the frequent ready tear. Now, abject, stooping, old, and wan, Neglected is the beggar man.

See the boy advance in age, And learning spreads her useful page; In vain--for giddy pleasure calls, And shows the marbles, tops, and balls. What’s learning to the charms of play? Th’ indulgent tutor must give way. A heedless wilful dunce, and wild, The parents’ fondness spoil’d the child; The youth in vagrant courses ran. Now, abject, stooping, old, and wan, Their fondling is the beggar man.

XXVIII

A dinner party, coffee, tea, Sandwich, or supper, all may be In their way pleasant. But to me Not one of these deserves the praise That welcomer of new-born days, A breakfast, merits; ever giving Cheerful notice we are living Another day refresh’d by sleep, When its festival we keep. Now, although I would not slight Those kindly words we use, “Good-night,” Yet parting words are words of sorrow, And may not vie with sweet “Good-morrow,” With which again our friends we greet When in the breakfast-room we meet, At the social table round, Listening to the lively sound Of those notes which never tire Of urn or kettle on the fire.

Sleepy Robert never hears Or urn or kettle; he appears When all have finish’d, one by one Dropping off, and breakfast done. Yet has he too his own pleasure, His breakfast hour’s his hour of leisure; And, left alone, he reads or muses, Or else in idle mood he uses To sit and watch the venturous fly, Where the sugar’s piled high, Clambering o’er the lumps so white, Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.

XXIX

Whene’er I fragrant coffee drink I on the generous Frenchman think, Whose noble perseverance bore The tree to Martinico’s shore. While yet her colony was new, Her island products but a few, Two shoots from off a coffee-tree He carried with him o’er the sea. Each little tender coffee-slip He waters daily in the ship; And as he tends his embryo trees Feels he is raising ’midst the seas Coffee groves, whose ample shade Shall screen the dark Creolian maid. But soon, alas! his darling pleasure In watching this his precious treasure,

Is like to fade; for water fails On board the ship in which he sails. Now all the reservoirs are shut, The crew on short allowance put; So small a drop is each man’s share Few leavings you may think there are To water these poor coffee plants! But he supplies their gasping wants; Ev’n from his own dry parched lips He spares it for his coffee-slips. Water he gives his nurslings first Ere he allays his own deep thirst; Lest if he first the water sip He bear too far his eager lip. He sees them droop for want of more; Yet when they reach the destined shore, With pride the heroic gardener sees A living sap still in his trees. The islanders his praise resound! Coffee plantations rise around; And Martinico loads her ships With produce from those dear-saved slips.[B]

[B] The name of this man was Desclieux, and the story is to be found in the Abbé Raynal’s History of the Settlements and Trade of the Europeans in the East and West Indies.

XXX

My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see, They seem for any use to be unfit for me: My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind, Within this narrow space can hardly be confined. Yet I will strive to make my hand less awkward look; I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book! The finest pens I’ll use, and wondrous pains I’ll take, And I these perfect lines my monitors will make. And every day I will set down in order due How that day wasted is; and should there be a few At the year’s end that show more goodly to the sight, If haply here I find some days not wasted quite, If a small portion of them I have pass’d aright, Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent, And that my Diary has been by some good angel sent.

XXXI

This rose-tree is not made to bear The violet blue, nor lily fair, Nor the sweet mignonette; And if this tree were discontent Or wish’d to change its natural bent, It all in vain would fret.

And should it fret, you would suppose It ne’er had seen its own red rose, Nor after gentle shower Had ever smell’d its rose’s scent, Or it could ne’er be discontent With its own pretty flower.

Like such a blind and senseless tree As I’ve imagined this to be, All envious persons are: With care and culture all may find Some pretty flower in their own mind, Some talent that is rare.

XXXII

CHILD.

O lady, lay your costly robes aside, No longer may you glory in your pride.

MOTHER.

Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear Sad songs, were made so long ago, my dear? This day I am to be a bride, you know, Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?

CHILD.

O Mother, lay your costly robes aside, For you may never be another’s bride. _That_ line I learn’d not in the old sad song.

MOTHER.

I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, Play with the bride-maids, and be glad, my boy, For thou shalt be a second father’s joy.

CHILD.

One father fondled me upon his knee, One father is enough, alone, for me.

XXXIII

Lately an equipage I overtook, And help’d to lift it o’er a narrow brook; No horse it had, except one boy, who drew His sister out in it the fields to view. O happy town-bred girl, in fine chaise going For the first time to see the green grass growing! This was the end and purport of the ride, I learn’d, as walking slowly by their side I heard their conversation. Often she-- “Brother, is this the country that I see?” The bricks were smoking and the ground was broke, There were no signs of verdure when she spoke. He, as the well-inform’d delight in chiding The ignorant, these questions still deriding, To his good judgment modestly she yields; Till, brick-kilns past, they reach’d the open fields. Then, as with rapturous wonder round she gazes On the green grass, the buttercups and daisies,--

“This is the country, sure enough!” she cries: “Is’t not a charming place?” The boy replies, “We’ll go no further.” “No,” says she, “no need: No finer place than this can be, indeed!” I left them gathering flowers, the happiest pair That ever London sent to breathe the fine fresh air.

XXXIV

The lady Blanche, regardless of all her lovers’ fears, To the Ursuline convent hastens, and long the abbess hears. “O Blanche, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead.” Blanche looked on a rosebud, and little seem’d to heed. She looked on the rosebud, she looked round and thought On all her heart had whisper’d, and all the Nun had taught. “I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines my fame, All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanche’s name. Nor shall I quickly wither like the rosebud from the tree, My queen-like graces shining when my beauty’s gone from me. But when the sculptured marble is raised o’er my head, And the matchless Blanche lies lifeless among the noble dead, This saintly lady abbess hath made me justly fear It nothing will avail me that I was worshipp’d here.”

XXXV

Who art thou, fair one, who usurp’st the place Of Blanche, the lady of the matchless grace? Come, fair and pretty, tell to me Who, in thy life-time, thou might’st be. Thou pretty art and fair, But with the lady Blanche thou never must compare. No need for Blanche her history to tell; Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. But when I look on thee, I only know There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.

XXXVI

While young John runs to greet The greater Infant’s feet, The mother standing by, with trembling passion Of devout admiration Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration; Nor knows as yet the full event Of those so low beginnings, From whence we date our winnings, But wonders at the intent Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant. But at her side An angel doth abide, With such a perfect joy As no dim doubts alloy, An intuition, A glory, an amenity, Passing the dark condition Of blind humanity, As if he surely knew All the blest wonders should ensue, Or he had lately left the upper sphere, And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.

XXXVII

Maternal lady with the virgin grace, Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure, And thou a virgin pure. Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face Men look upon, they wish to be A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.

XXXVIII

I saw a famous fountain, in my dream, Where shady pathways to a valley led; A weeping willow lay upon that stream, And all around the fountain brink were spread Wide branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, Forming a doubtful twilight--desolate and sad.

The place was such, that whoso enter’d in, Disrobéd was of every earthly thought, And straight became as one that knew not sin, Or to the world’s first innocence was brought; Enseem’d it now, he stood on holy ground, In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.

A most strange calm stole o’er my soothéd sprite; Long time I stood, and longer had I stay’d, When, lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight Which came in silence o’er that silent shade, Where, near the fountain, something like despair Made of that weeping willow, garlands for her hair.

And eke with painful fingers she inwove Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn-- “The willow garland, that was for her love, And these her bleeding temples would adorn.” With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell As mournfully she bended o’er that sacred well.

To whom when I address’d myself to speak, She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said; The delicate red came mantling o’er her cheek, And, gathering up her loose attire, she fled To the dark covert of that woody shade, And in her goings seem’d a timid gentle maid.

Revolving in my mind what this should mean, And why that lovely lady plained so; Perplex’d in thought at that mysterious scene, And doubting if ’twere best to stay or go, I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around, When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound.

“Psyche am I, who love to dwell In these brown shades, this woody dell, Where never busy mortal came Till now, to pry upon my shame.

“At thy feet what thou dost see, The waters of repentance be, Which, night and day, I must augment With tears, like a true penitent,

“If haply so my day of grace Be not yet past; and this lone place, O’ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence All thoughts but grief and penitence.”

“_Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid! And wherefore in this barren shade Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed? Can thing so fair repentance need?_”

“Oh! I have done a deed of shame, And tainted is my virgin fame, And stain’d the beauteous maiden white In which my bridal robes were dight.”

“_And who the promised spouse, declare: And what those bridal garments were?_”

“Severe and saintly righteousness Composed the clear white bridal dress; Jesus, the Son of Heaven’s high King, Bought with His blood the marriage-ring. A wretched sinful creature, I Deem’d lightly of that sacred tie, Gave to a treacherous world my heart, And play’d the foolish wanton’s part.

“Soon to these murky shades I came To hide from the sun’s light my shame. And still I haunt this woody dell And bathe me in that healing well, Whose waters clear have influence From sin’s foul stains the soul to cleanse; And, night and day I them augment With tears, like a true penitent, Until, due expiation made, And fit atonement fully paid, The Lord and Bridegroom me present Where in sweet strains of high consent, God’s throne before, the seraphim Shall chant the ecstatic marriage-hymn.”

“Now Christ restore thee soon--” I said, And thenceforth all my dream was fled.

London Engraved & Printed at _RACQUET COURT, by EDMUND EVANS_

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.