Chapter 3

'From darkness rushing o'er his way, The Thorn's white load it bears on high! Where the short furze all shrouded lay, Mounts the dried grass;--Earth's bosom dry.

'Then o'er the Hill with furious sweep It rends the elevated tree-- Sure-footed beast, thy road thou'lt keep; Nor storm nor darkness startles thee!

'O blest assurance, (trusty steed,) To thee the buried road is known; _Home_, all the spur thy footsteps need, When loose the frozen rein is thrown,

'Between the roaring blasts that shake The naked Elder at the door, Though not one prattler to me speak, Their sleeping sighs delight me more.

'Sound is their rest:--they little know What pain, what cold, their Father feels; But dream, perhaps, they see him now, While each the promis'd Orange peels.

Would it were so!--the fire burns bright, And on the warming trencher gleams; In Expectation's raptur'd sight How precious his arrival seems!

'I'll look abroad!--'tis piercing cold!-- How the bleak wind assails his breast! Yet some faint light mine eyes, behold: The storm is verging o'er the West.

'There shines a _Star!_--O welcome sight!-- Through the thin vapours brightening still! Yet, 'twas beneath the fairest night The murd'rer stained yon lonely Hill.

'Mercy, kind Heav'n! such thoughts dispel! No voice, no footstep can I hear! (Where Night and Silence brooding dwell, Spreads thy cold reign, heart-chilling Fear.)

'Distressing hour! uncertain fate! O Mercy, Mercy, guide him home!-- Hark!--then I heard the distant gate;-- Repeat it, Echo; quickly, come!

'One minute now will ease my fears-- Or, still more wretched must I be? No: surely Heaven has spar'd our tears: I see him, cloath'd in snow;--'_tis_ he.--

'Where have you stay'd? put down your load. How have you borne the storm, the cold? What horrors did I not forebode-- That Beast is worth his weight in gold.'

Thus spoke the joyful Wife;--then ran And hid in grateful steams her head: Dapple was hous'd, the hungry Man With joy glanc'd o'er the Children's bed.

'What, all asleep!--so best;' he cried: O what a night I've travell'd through! Unseen, unheard, I might have died; But Heaven has brought me safe to you.

'Dear Partner of my nights and days, That smile becomes thee!--Let us then Learn, though mishap may cross our ways, It is not ours to reckon when.'

THE FAKENHAM GHOST.

A Ballad.

The Lawns were dry in Euston Park; (Here Truth [1] inspires my Tale) The lonely footpath, still and dark, Led over Hill and Dale.

[Footnote 1: This Ballad is founded on a fact. The circumstance occurred perhaps long before I was born: but is still related by my Mother, and some of the oldest inhabitants in that part of the country. R.B.]

Benighted was an ancient Dame, And fearful haste she made To gain the vale of Fakenham, And hail its Willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops, But follow'd faster still; And echo'd to the darksome Copse That whisper'd on the Hill;

Where clam'rous Rooks, yet scarcely hush'd, Bespoke a peopled shade; And many a wing the foliage brush'd, And hov'ring circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing Deer That sought the Shades by day, Now started from her path with fear, And gave the Stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears Came o'er her troubled mind; When now, a short quick step she hears Come patting close behind.

She turn'd; it stopt;--nought could she see Upon the gloomy plain! But, as she strove the Sprite to flee, She heard the same again.

Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame; For, where the path was bare, The trotting Ghost kept on the same! She mutter'd many a pray'r.

Yet once again, amidst her fright She tried what sight could do; When through the cheating glooms of night, A MONSTER stood in view.

Regardless of whate'er she felt, It follow'd down the plain! She own'd her sins, and down she knelt, And said her pray'rs again.

Then on she sped: and Hope grew strong, The white park gate in view; Which pushing hard, so long it swung That _Ghost_ and all pass'd through.

Loud fell the gate against the post! Her heart-strings like to crack: For, much she fear'd the grisly Ghost Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the Goblin went, As it had done before:-- Her strength and resolution spent, She fainted at the door.

Out came her Husband much surpris'd: Out came her Daughter dear: Good-natur'd Souls! all unadvis'd Of what they had to fear.

The Candle's gleam pierc'd through the night, Some short space o'er the green; And there the little trotting Sprite Distinctly might be seen.

An _Ass's Foal_ had lost its Dam Within the spacious Park; And simple as the playful Lamb Had follow'd in the dark.

No Goblin he; no imp of sin: No crimes had ever known. They took the shaggy stranger in, And rear'd him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round Upon the Cottage floor: The Matron learn'd to love the sound That frighten'd her before.

A favorite the Ghost became; And, 'twas his fate to thrive: And long he liv'd and spread his fame, And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the Vale; And some conviction tod:-- Each thought some other Goblin Perhaps, was just as true.

THE FRENCH MARINER.

A Ballad.

An Old _French Mariner_ am I, Whom Time hath render'd poor and gray; Hear, conquering _Britons_, ere I die, What anguish prompts me thus to say.

I've rode o'er many a dreadful wave, I've seen the reeking blood descend: I've heard the last groans of the brave;-- The shipmate dear, the steady Friend.

'Twas when _De Grasse_ the battle join'd And struck, on _April's_ fatal morn: I left three smiling boys behind, And saw my Country's Lily torn.

There, as I brav'd the storms of Fate, Dead in my arms my Brother fell; Here sits forlorn his widow'd Mate, Who weeps whene'er the tale I tell.

Thy reign, sweet Peace, was o'er too soon; War, piecemeal, robs me of my joy: For, on the bloodstain'd _first_ of _June_ Death took my _eldest_ favorite Boy.

The other two enrag'd arose; 'Our Country claims our lives,' they said. With them I lost my Soul's repose; That fatal hour my last hope fled.

With BRUYES the proud NILE they sought; Where one in ling'ring wounds expir'd; While yet the other bravely fought The Orient's magazine was fir'd.

And must I mourn my Country's shame? And envious curse the conquering Foe? No more I feel that thirst of Fame;--All I can feel is private woe.

E'en all the joy that Vict'ry brings, (Her bellowing Guns, and flaming pride) Cold, momentary comfort flings Around where weeping Friends reside.

Whose blighted bud no Sun shall cheer, Whose Lamp of Life no longer shine: Some Parent, Brother, Child, most dear, Who ventur'd, and who died like mine.

Proud crested Fiend, the World's worst foe, Ambition, canst thou boast one deed, Whence no unsightly horrors flow, Nor private peace is seen to bleed?

Ah! why do these old Eyes remain To see succeeding mornings rise! My Wife is dead, my Children slain. And Poverty is all my prize.

Yet shall not poor enfeebled Age Breathe forth revenge;--but rather say O God, who seest the Battle's rage, Take from men's hearts that rage away.

From the vindictive tongue of strife Bid Hatred and false Glory See; That babes may meet advancing life, Nor feel the woes that light on me.

DOLLY

_"Ingenuous trust, and confidence of Love."_

The Bat began with giddy wing His circuit round the Shed, the Tree; And clouds of dancing Gnats to sing A summer-night's serenity.

Darkness crept slowly o'er the East! Upon the Barn-roof watch'd the Cat; Sweet breath'd the ruminating Beast At rest where DOLLY musing sat.

A simple Maid, who could employ The silent lapse of Evening mild, And lov'd its solitary joy; For Dolly was Reflection's child.

He who had pledg'd his word to be Her life's dear guardian, far away, The flow'r of Yeoman Cavalry, Bestrode a Steed with trappings gay.

And thus from memory's treasur'd sweets, And thus from Love's pure fount she drew That peace, which busy care defeats, And bids our pleasures bloom anew.

Six weeks of absence have I borne Since HENRY took his fond farewell: The charms of that delightful morn My tongue could thus for ever tell.

He at my Window whistling loud, Arous'd my lightsome heart to go: Day, conqu'ring climb'd from cloud to cloud; The fields all wore a purple glow.

We stroll'd the bordering flow'rs among: One hand the Bridle held behind; The other round my waist was flung: Sure never Youth spoke half so kind!

The rising Lark I could but hear; And jocund seem'd the song to be: But sweeter sounded in my ear, 'Will _Dolly_ still be true to me!'

From the rude Dock my skirt had swept A fringe of clinging burrs so green; Like them our hearts still closer crept, And hook'd a thousand holds unseen.

High o'er the road each branching bough Its globes of silent dew had shed; And on the pure-wash'd sand below The dimpling drops around had spread.

The sweet-brier op'd its pink-ey'd rose, And gave its fragrance to the gale; Though modest flow'rs may sweets disclose; More sweet was HENRY'S earnest tale.

He seem'd, methought, on that dear morn, To pour out all his heart to me; As if, the separation borne, The coming hours would joyless be,

A bank rose high beside the way, And full against the Morning Sun; Of heay'nly blue there Violets gay His hand invited one by.

The posy with a smile he gave; I saw his meaning in his eyes: The withered treasure still I have; My bosom holds the fragrant prize.

With his last kiss he would have vow'd; But blessings crouding forc'd their way: Then mounted he his Courser proud; His time elaps'd, he could not stay.

Then first I felt the parting pang;-- Sure the worst pang the Lover feels! His Horse unruly from me sprang, The pebbles flew beneath his heels;

Then down the road his vigour tried, His rider gazing, gazing still; _'My dearest, I'll be true_,' he cried:-- And, if he lives, I'm sure he will.

Then haste, ye hours, haste, Eve and Morn, Yet strew your blessings round my home: Ere Winter's blasts shall strip the thorn My promis'd joy, my love, will come.

LINES OCCASIONED BY A VISIT TO WHITTLEBURY FOREST,

NORTHAMPTONSHIRE, IN AUGUST, 1800.

ADDRESSED TO MY CHILDREN.

Genius of the Forest Shades! Lend thy pow'r, and lend thine ear! A Stranger trod thy lonely glades, Amidst thy dark and bounding Deer; Inquiring Childhood claims the verse, O let them not inquire in vain; Be with me while I thus rehearse The glories of thy Sylvan Reign.

Thy Dells by wint'ry currents worn, Secluded haunts, how dear to me! From all but Nature's converse borne, No ear to hear, no eye to see. Their honour'd leaves the green Oaks rear'd, And crown'd the upland's graceful swell; While answering through the vale was heard Each distant Heifer's tinkling bell.

Hail, Greenwood shades, that stretching far, Defy e'en Summer's noontide pow'r, When August in his burning Car Withholds the Cloud, withholds the Show'r. The deep-ton'd Low from either Hill, Down hazel aisles and arches green, (The Herd's rude tracks from rill to rill) Roar'd echoing through the solemn scene.

From my charm'd heart the numbers sprung, Though Birds had ceas'd the choral lay: I pour'd wild raptures from my tongue, And gave delicious tears their way. Then, darker shadows seeking still, Where human foot had seldom stray'd, I read aloud to every Hill Sweet Emma's Love, 'the Nut-brown Maid.'

Shaking his matted mane on high The gazing Colt would raise his head; Or, tim'rous Doe would rushing fly, And leave to me her grassy bed: Where, as the azure sky appear'd Through Bow'rs of every varying form, Midst the deep gloom methought I heard The daring progress of the storm.

How would each sweeping pond'rous bough Resist, when straight the Whirlwind cleaves, Dashing in strength'ning eddies through A roaring wilderness of leaves! How would the prone descending show'r From the green Canopy rebound! How would the lowland torrents pour! How deep the pealing thunder sound!

But Peace was there: no lightnings blaz'd:-- No clouds obscur'd the face of Heav'n: Down each green op'ning while I gaz'd, My thoughts to home, and you, were giv'n. O tender minds! in life's gay morn Some clouds must dim your coming day; Yet, bootless pride and falsehood scorn, And peace like this shall cheer your way.

Now, at the dark Wood's stately side, Well pleas'd I met the Sun again; Here fleeting Fancy travell'd wide! My seat was destin'd to the Main: For, many an Oak lay stretch'd at length, Whose trunks (with bark no longer sheath'd) Had reach'd their full meridian strength Before your Father's Father breath'd!

Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave, And many a dreadful storm defy; Then groaning o'er the adverse wave, Bring home the flag of victory. Go, then, proud Oaks; we meet no more! Go, grace the scenes to me denied, The white Cliffs round my native shore, And the loud Ocean's swelling tide.

'Genius of the Forest Shades,' Sweet, from the heights of thy domain, When the grey ev'ning shadow fades, To view the Country's golden grain! To view the gleaming Village Spire Midst distant groves unknown to me; Groves, that grown bright in borrow'd fire, Bow o'er the peopled Vales to thee!

Where was thy Elfin train that play Round _Wake's_ huge Oak, their favourite tree; May a poor son of Song thus say, Why were they not reveal'd to me! Yet, smiling Fairies left behind, Affection brought you to nay view; To love and tenderness resign'd, I sat me down and thought of you.

When Morning still unclouded rose, Refresh'd with sleep and joyous dreams, Where fruitful fields with woodlands close, I trac'd the births of various streams. From beds of Clay, here creeping rills Unseen to parent _Ouse_ would steal; Or, gushing from the northward Hills, 'Would glitter through _Toves'_ winding dale.

But ah! ye cooling springs, farewell! Herds, I no more your freedom share; But long my grateful tongue shall tell What brought your gazing stranger there. 'Genius of the Forest Shades, 'Lend thy power, and lend thine ear;' Let dreams still lengthen thy long glades, And bring thy peace and silence here.

SONG FOR A HIGHLAND DROVER RETURNING FROM ENGLAND.

Now fare-thee-well, England; no further I'll roam; But follow my shadow that points the way home; Your gay southern Shores shall not tempt me to stay; For my Maggy's at Home, and my Children at play! Tis this makes my Bonnet set light on my brow, Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow.

Farewell, Mountaineers! my companions, adieu; Soon, many long miles when I'm severed from you, I shall miss your white Horns on the brink of the Bourne, And o'er the rough Heaths, where you'll never return: But in brave English pastures you cannot complain, While your Drover speeds back to his Maggy again.

O Tweed! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green vales, More than life, more than Love, my tir'd Spirit inhales; There Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view, With her bare-footed Lasses and Mountains so blue: To the Mountains away; my heart bounds like the Hind; For home is so sweet, and my Maggy so kind.

As day after day I still follow my course, And in fancy trace back every Stream to its source, Hope cheers me up hills, where the road lies before O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of wild Moor; The keen polar Star nightly rising to view; But Maggy's my Star, just as steady and true.

O Ghosts of my Fathers! O heroes, look down! Fix my wandering thoughts on your deeds of renown, For the glory of Scotland reigns warm in my breast, And fortitude grows both from toil and from rest; May your deeds and your worth be for ever in view, And may Maggy bear sons not unworthy of you.

Love, why do you urge me, so weary and poor? I cannot step faster, I cannot do more; I've pass'd silver Tweed; e'en the Tay flows behind: Yet fatigue I'll disdain;--my reward I shall find: Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize; And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue eyes.

She'll watch to the southward;--perhaps she will sigh, That the way is so long, and the Mountains so high; Perhaps some huge Rock in the dusk she may see, And will say in her fondness, 'That surely is he!' Good Wife, you're deceiv'd; I'm still far from my home; Go, sleep, my dear Maggy,--to-morrow I'll come.

A WORD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES.

WHEN tender Rose-trees first receive On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower; Hope's gayest pictures we believe, And anxious watch each coining flower.

Then, if beneath the genial Sun That spreads abroad the full-blown May, Two infant Stems the rest out-run, Their buds the first to meet the day,

With joy their op'ning tints we view, While morning's precious moments fly: My pretty Maids, 'tis thus with _you_; The fond admiring gazer, _I_.

Preserve, sweet Buds, where'er you be; The richest gem that decks a Wife; The charm of _female modesty:_ And let sweet Music give it life.

Still may the favouring Muse be found: Still circumspect the paths ye tread: Plant moral truths in Fancy's ground; And meet old Age without a dread.

Yet, ere that comes, while yet ye quaff The cup of Health without a pain, I'll shake my grey hairs when you laugh, And, when you sing, be young again.

Both the young Ladies had addressed to me a few complimentary lines, (and I am sorry that those of the elder sister were never in my possession;) in return for which I sent the above. It was received on the day on which the younger completed her ninth year. Surely it cannot be ascribed to vanity, if, in gratitude to a most amiable family, I here preserve verbatim an effort of a child nine years old. I hare the more pleasure in doing it, because _I know_ them to be her own. R.B.

"Accept, dear Bard, the Muse's genuine thought, And take not ill the tribute of my heart:-- For thee the laureat wreath of praise I'll bind, None that have read thy commendable mind Can let it pass unnotic'd--nor can I-- For by thy lays I know thy sympathy." F.P.

ON HEARING THE TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FARMER'S BOY INTO LATIN

_By the Rev. Mr. C--;_

Hey, Giles! in what new garb art dresst? For Lads like you methinks a bold one; I'm glad to see thee so caresst; But, hark ye!--don't despise your old one. Thou'rt not the first by many, a Boy Who've found abroad good friends to own 'em; Then, in such Coats have shown their joy, E'en their _own Fathers_ have not known 'em.

NANCY

A Song.

You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume That you cherish a secret affection for me? When we see the Flow'rs bud, don't we look for the Bloom? Then, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee.

When we Young Men with pastimes the Twilight beguile, I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy: And observe, that whatever occasions the smile, You give me a glance; but provokingly coy.

Last Month, when wild Strawberries pluckt in the Grove, Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had strung; You gave me the choicest; I hop'd 'twas for Love; And I told you my hopes while the Nightingale sung.

Remember the Viper:--'twas close at your feet; How you started, and threw yourself into my arms; Not a Strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet As the lips which I kiss'd to subdue your alarms.

As I pull'd down the clusters of Nuts for my Fair, What a blow I receiv'd from a strong bending bough; Though Lucy and other gay lasses were there, Not one of them show'd such compassion as you.

And was it compassion?--by Heaven 'twas more! A telltale betrays you;--that blush on your cheek. Then come, dearest Maid, all your trifling give o'er, And whisper what Candour will teach you to speak.

Can you stain my fair Honour with one broken vow? Can you say that I've ever occasion'd a pain? On Truth's honest base let your tenderness grow: I swear to be faithful, again and again.

ROSY HANNAH.

A Spring o'erhung with many a flow'r, The grey sand dancing in its bed, Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bower, Sent forth its waters near my head: A rosy Lass approach'd my view; I caught her blue eye's modest beam: The stranger nodded 'How d'ye do!' And leap'd across the infant stream.

The water heedless pass'd away: With me her glowing image stay'd. I strove, from that auspicious day, To meet and bless the lovely Maid. I met her where beneath our feet Through downy Moss the Wild-Thyme grew; Nor Moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet, Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark Woods wave, And shaded verdure skirts the plain; And when the pale Moon rising gave New glories to her cloudy train. From her sweet Cot upon the Moor Our plighted vows to Heaven are flown; Truth made me welcome at her door, And rosy Hannah is my own.

Song.

THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER.

ROVER, awake! the grey Cock crows! Come, shake your coat and go with me! High in the East the green Hill glows; And glory crowns our shelt'ring Tree. The Sheep expect us at the fold: My faithful Dog, let's haste away, And in his earliest beams behold, And hail, the source of cheerful day.

Half his broad orb o'erlooks the Hill, And darting down the Valley flies: At every casement welcome still; The golden summons of the skies. Go, fetch my Staff; and o'er the dews Let Echo waft thy gladsome voice. Shall we a cheerful note refuse When rising Morn proclaims 'Rejoice!'

Now then we'll start; and thus I'll sling Our store, a trivial load to bear: Yet, ere night comes, should hunger sting, I'll not encroach on _Rover's_ share. The fresh breeze bears its sweets along; The Lark but chides us while we stay: Soon shall the Vale repeat my song; Go brush before, away, away.

HUNTING SONG

Ye darksome Woods where Echo dwells, Where every bud with freedom swells To meet the glorious day: The morning breaks; again rejoice; And with old Ringwood's well-known voice Bid tuneful Echo play.

We come, ye Groves, ye Hills, we come: The vagrant Fox shall hear: his doom, And dread our jovial train. The shrill Horn sounds, the courser flies, While every Sportsman joyful cries, 'There's Ringwood's voice again.'

Ye Meadows, hail the coming throng; Ye peaceful Streams that wind along, Repeat the Hark-away: Far o'er the Downs, ye Gales that sweep, The daring Oak that crowns the steep, The roaring peal convey.

The chiming notes of chearful Hounds, Hark! how the hollow Dale resounds; The sunny Hills how gay. But where's the note, brave Dog, like thine? Then urge the Steed, the chorus join, 'Tis Ringwood leads the way.

LUCY:

A Song.

Thy favourite Bird is soaring still: My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale; The Stream's let loose, and from the Mill All silent comes the balmy gale; Yet, so lightly on its way, Seems to whisper 'Holiday.'

The pathway flowers that bending meet And give the Meads their yellow hue, The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet Reserve their fragrance all for you. Why then, Lucy, why delay? Let us share the Holiday.

Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid, Are with unfeigned rapture seen, To Beauty be the homage paid; Come, claim the triumph of the Green. Here's my hand, come, come away; Share the merry Holiday.

A promise too my Lucy made, (And shall my heart its claim resign?) That ere May-flowers again should fade, Her heart and hand should both be mine. Hark 'ye, Lucy, this is May; Love shall crown our Holiday.

WINTER SONG

Dear Boy, throw that Icicle down, And sweep this deep Snow from the door: Old Winter comes on with a frown; A terrible frown for the poor. In a Season so rude and forlorn How can age, how can infancy bear The silent neglect and the scorn Of those who have plenty to spare?

Fresh broach'd is my Cask of old Ale, Well-tim'd now the frost is set in; Here's Job come to tell us a tale, We'll make him at home to a pin. While my Wife and I bask o'er the fire, The roll of the Seasons will prove, That Time may diminish desire, But cannot extinguish true love.