Chapter 3

His simple errand done, he homeward hies; Another instantly its place supplies. The clatt'ring dairy-maid immers'd in steam, Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream, Bawls out, "_Go fetch the cows_:..." he hears no more; For pigs, and ducks, and turkies, throng the door, And sitting hens, for constant war prepar'd; A concert strange to that which late he heard. Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes; With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows: Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze, Or hear the summon with an idle gaze; For well they know the cow-yard yields no more Its tempting fragrance, nor its wint'ry store. Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow; The right of conquest all the law they know: Subordinate they one by one succeed; And one among them always takes the lead, Is ever foremost, wheresoe'er they stray; Allow'd precedence, undisputed sway; With jealous pride her station is maintain'd, For many a broil that post of honour gain'd. At home, the yard affords a grateful scene; For Spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean. Thence from its chalky bed behold convey'd The rich manure that drenching winter made, Which pil'd near home, grows green with many a weed, A promis'd nutriment for Autumn's seed. Forth comes the Maid, and like the morning smiles; The Mistress too, and follow'd close by Giles. A friendly tripod forms their humble seat, With pails bright scour'd, and delicately sweet. Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray, Begins their work, begins the simple lay; The full-charg'd udder yields its willing streams, While _Mary_ sings some lover's amorous dreams; And crouching Giles beneath a neighbouring tree Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee; Whose hat with tatter'd brim, of nap so bare, From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, An unambitious, peaceable cockade. As unambitious too that cheerful aid The mistress yields beside her rosy maid;

With joy she views her plenteous reeking store, And bears a brimmer to the dairy door; Her cows dismiss'd, the luscious mead to roam, Till ere again recall them loaded home. And now the DAIRY claims her choicest care, And half her household find employment there: Slow rolls the churn, its load of clogging cream At once foregoes its quality and name; From knotty particles first floating wide Congealing butter's dash'd from side to side; Streams of new milk thro' flowing coolers stray, And snow-white curd abounds, and wholesome whey. Due north th' unglazed windows, cold and clear, For warming sunbeams are unwelcome here. Brisk goes the work beneath each busy hand, And _Giles_ must trudge, whoever gives command; A _Gibeonite_, that serves them all by turns: He drains the pump, from him the faggot burns; From him the noisy hogs demand their food; While at his heels run many a chirping brood, Or down his path in expectation stand, With equal claims upon his strewing hand. Thus wastes the morn, till each with pleasure sees The bustle o'er, and press'd the new-made cheese.

Unrivall'd stands thy country CHEESE, O _Giles!_ Whose very name alone engenders smiles; Whose fame abroad by every tongue is spoke, The well-known butt of many a flinty joke, That pass like current coin the nation through; And, ah! experience proves the satire true. Provision's grave, thou ever craving mart, Dependant, huge Metropolis! where Art Her pouring thousands stows in breathless rooms, Midst pois'nous smokes and steams, and rattling looms; Where Grandeur revels in unbounded stores; Restraint, a slighted stranger at their doors!

Thou, like a whirlpool, drain'st the countries round, Till London market, London price, resound Through every town, round every passing load, And dairy produce throngs the eastern road: Delicious veal, and butter, every hour, From Essex lowlands, and the banks of Stour; And further far, where numerous herds repose, From Orwell's brink, from Weveny, or Ouse. Hence Suffolk dairy-wives run mad for cream, And leave their milk with nothing but its name; Its name derision and reproach pursue, And strangers tell of "three times skimm'd sky-blue." To cheese converted, what can be its boast? What, but the common virtues of a post! If drought o'ertake it faster than the knife, Most fair it bids for stubborn length of life, And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid, Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade; Or in the hog-trough rests in perfect spite, Too big to swallow, and too hard to bite. Inglorious victory! Ye Cheshire meads, Or Severn's flow'ry dales, where plenty treads, Was your rich milk to suffer wrongs like these, Farewell your pride! farewell renowned cheese! The skimmer dread, whose ravages alone Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone.

NEGLECTED now the early _daisy_ lies: Nor thou, pale _primrose_, bloom'st the only prize: Advancing SPRING profusely spreads abroad Flow'rs of all hues, with sweetest fragrance stor'd; Where'er she treads, LOVE gladdens every plain, _Delight_ on tiptoe bears her lucid train; Sweet _Hope_ with conscious brow before her flies, Anticipating wealth from Summer skies; All Nature feels her renovating sway; The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadow gay; And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen, Display the new-grown branch of lighter green; On airy downs the shepherd idling lies, And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies. Here then, my soul, thy darling theme pursue, For every day was Giles a SHEPHERD too.

Small was his charge: no wilds had they to roam; But bright enclosures circling round their home. Nor yellow-blossom'd furze, nor stubborn thorn, The heath's rough produce, had their fleeces torn: Yet ever roving, ever seeking thee, Enchanting spirit, dear Variety! O happy tenants, prisoners of a day! Releas'd to ease, to pleasure, and to play; Indulg'd through every field by turns to range, And taste them all in one continual change. For though luxuriant their grassy food, Sheep long confin'd but loathe the present good; Bleating around the homeward gate they meet, And starve, and pine, with plenty at their feet. Loos'd from the winding lane, a joyful throng, See, o'er yon pasture how they pour along! _Giles_ round their boundaries takes his usual stroll; Sees every pass secur'd, and fences whole; High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye, Where many a nestling first assays to fly; Where blows the woodbine, faintly streak'd with red, And rests on every bough its tender head; Round the young ash its twining branches meet, Or crown the hawthorn with its odours sweet.

Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen, _Spring's_ morning smiles, and soul-enliv'ning green, Say, did you give the thrilling transport way? Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride, Or gaz'd in merry clusters by your side? Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, At the arch meaning of a kitten's face; If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth; In shades like these pursue your fav'rite joy, Midst Nature's revels, sports that never cloy.

A few begin a short but vigorous race, And indolence abash'd soon flies the place; Thus challeng'd forth, see thither one by one, From every side assembling playmates run; A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd, impatient of delay. Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, "Come, let us try our speed;" Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, The green turf trembling as they bound along; Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every molehill is a bed of thyme; There panting stop; yet scarcely can refrain; A bird, a leaf, will set them off again: Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scatt'ring the wild-briar roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try, Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen rose! sad emblem of their doom; Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom! Though unoffending innocence may plead, Though frantic ewes may mourn the savage deed, Their shepherd comes, a messenger of blood, And drives them bleating from their sports and food. Care loads his brow, and pity wrings his heart, For lo, the murd'ring BUTCHER with his cart Demands the firstlings of his flock to die, And makes a sport of life and liberty! His gay companions _Giles_ beholds no more; Clos'd are their eyes, their fleeces drench'd in gore; Nor can Compassion, with her softest notes, Withhold the knife that plunges through their throats.

Down, indignation! hence, ideas foul! Away the shocking image from my soul! Let kindlier visitants attend my way, Beneath approaching _Summer's_ fervid ray; Nor thankless glooms obtrude, nor cares annoy, Whilst the sweet theme is _universal joy_.

SUMMER.

ARGUMENT.

_Turnip sowing. Wheat ripening. Sparrows. Insects. The sky-lark. Reaping, &c. Harvest-field, Dairy-maid, &c. Labours of the barn. The gander. Night; a thunder storm. Harvest-home. Reflections, &c._

SUMMER.

II.

THE FARMER'S life displays in every part A moral lesson to the sensual heart. Though in the lap of Plenty, thoughtful still, He looks beyond the present good or ill; Nor estimates alone one blessing's worth, From changeful seasons, or capricious earth; But views the future with the present hours, And looks for failures as he looks for show'ers; For casual as for certain want prepares, And round his yard the reeking haystack rears; Or clover, blossom'd lovely to the sight, His team's rich store through many a wint'ry night. What tho' abundance round his dwelling spreads, Though ever moist his self-improving meads Supply his dairy with a copious flood, And seem to promise unexhausted food; That promise fails, when buried deep in snow, And vegetative juices cease to flow. For this, his plough turns up the destin'd lands, Whence stormy Winter draws its full demands; For this, the seed minutely small he sows, Whence, sound and sweet, the hardy turnip grows. But how unlike to APRIL'S closing days! High climbs the Sun, and darts his pow'rful rays; Whitens the fresh-drawn mould, and pierces through The cumb'rous clods that tumble round the plough. O'er heaven's bright azure hence with joyful eyes The Farmer sees dark clouds assembling rise; Borne o'er his fields a heavy torrent falls, And strikes the earth in hasty driving squalls. "_Right welcome down, ye precious drops_," he cries; But soon, too soon, the partial blessing flies. "_Boy, bring thy harrows, try how deep the rain Has forc'd its way_." He comes, but comes in vain; Dry dust beneath the bubbling surface lurks, And mocks his pains the more, the more he works: Still midst huge clods he plunges on forlorn, That laugh his harrows and the shower to scorn. E'en thus the living clod, the stubborn fool, Resists the stormy lectures of the school, Till tried with gentler means, the dunce to please, His head imbibes right reason by degrees; As when from eve till morning's wakeful hour, Light, constant rain, evinces secret pow'r, And ere the day resume its wonted smiles, Presents a cheerful easy task for _Giles_. Down with a touch the mellow'd soil is laid, And yon tall crop next claims his timely aid; Thither well pleas'd he hies, assur'd to find Wild trackless haunts, and objects to his mind.

Shot up from broad rank blades that droop below, The nodding WHEAT-EAR forms a graceful bow, With milky kernels starting full, weigh'd down, Ere yet the sun hath ting'd its head with brown; Whilst thousands in a flock, for ever gay, Loud chirping _sparrows_ welcome on the day, And from the mazes of the leafy thorn Drop one by one upon the bending corn. Giles with a pole assails their close retreats, And round the grass-grown dewy border beats, On either side completely overspread, Here branches bend, there corn o'ertops his head. Green covert, hail! for through the varying year No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear.

Here _Wisdom's_ placid eye delighted sees His frequent intervals of lonely ease, And with one ray his infant soul inspires, Just kindling there her never-dying fires, Whence solitude derives peculiar charms, And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. Just where the parting bough's light shadows play, Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day, Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed, Where swarming insects creep around his head. The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain O'er the smooth plantain-leaf, a spacious plain! Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd, He gains the summit of a shiv'ring blade, And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around, Exulting in his distance from the ground. The tender speckled moth here dancing seen, The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, And all prolific _Summer's_ sporting train, Their little lives by various pow'rs sustain. But what can unassisted vision do? What, but recoil where most it would pursue; His patient gaze but finish with a sigh, When musing waking speaks the _sky-lark_ nigh! Just starting from the corn she cheerly sings, And trusts with conscious pride her downy wings; Still louder breathes, and in the face of day Mounts up, and calls on _Giles_ to mark her way. Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, And forms a friendly telescope, that lends Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, And place the wand'ring bird before his sight; Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along, Lost for awhile, yet pours her varied song: He views the spot, and as the cloud moves by, Again she stretches up the clear blue sky;

Her form, her motion, undistinguish'd quite, Save when she wheels direct from shade to light: The flutt'ring songstress a mere speck became, Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream; He sees her yet, but yielding to repose, Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. Delicious sleep! From sleep who could forbear, With no more guilt than _Giles_, and no more care? Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing, Nor conscience once disturbs him with a sting; He wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain, And takes his pole and brushes round again.

Its dark-green hue, its sicklier tints all fail, And rip'ening harvest rustles in the gale. A glorious sight, if glory dwells below, Where Heaven's munificence makes all the show, O'er every field and golden prospect found, That glads the ploughman's Sunday morning's round, When on some eminence he takes his stand, To judge the smiling produce of the land. Here Vanity slinks back, her head to hide: What is there here to flatter human pride? The tow'ring fabric, or the dome's loud roar, And stedfast columns, may astonish more, Where the charm'd gazer long delighted stays, Yet trac'd but to the _architect_ the praise; Whilst here, the veriest clown that treads the sod, Without one scruple gives the praise to GOD; And twofold joys possess his raptur'd mind, From gratitude and admiration join'd.

Here, midst the boldest triumphs of her worth, NATURE herself invites the REAPERS forth; Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest, And gives that ardour which in every breast From infancy to age alike appears, When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears.

No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows-- Children of want, for you the bounty flows! And every cottage from the plenteous store Receives a burden nightly at its door.

Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along: Each sturdy Mower emulous and strong; Whose writhing form meridian heat defies, Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries; Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet, But spares the rising clover, short and sweet. Come, HEALTH! come, _Jollity!_ light-footed, come; Here hold your revels, and make this your home. Each heart awaits and hails you as its own; Each moisten'd brow, that scorns to wear a frown: Th' unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants stray'd; E'en the domestic laughing dairy maid Hies to the FIELD, the general toil to share. Meanwhile the FARMER quits his elbow-chair, His cool brick-floor, his pitcher, and his ease, And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees His gates thrown open, and his team abroad, The ready group attendant on his word, To turn the swarth, the quiv'ring load to rear, Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear. Summer's light garb itself now cumb'rous grown, Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down; Where oft the mastiff sculks with half-shut eye, And rouses at the stranger passing by; Whilst unrestrain'd the social converse flows, And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows, And rival wits with more than rustic grace Confess the presence of a pretty face.

For, lo! encircled there, the lovely MAID, In youth's own bloom and native smiles array'd; Her hat awry, divested of her gown, Her creaking stays of leather, stout and brown;...

Invidious barrier! why art thou so high, When the slight covering of her neck slips by, There half revealing to the eager sight Her full, ripe bosom, exquisitely white? In many a local tale of harmless mirth, And many a jest of momentary birth, She bears a part, and as she stops to speak, Strokes back the ringlets from her glowing cheek.

Now noon gone by, and four declining hours, The weary limbs relax their boasted pow'rs; Thirst rages strong, the fainting spirits fail, And ask the sov'reign cordial, home-brew'd ale: Beneath some shelt'ring heap of yellow corn Rests the hoop'd keg, and friendly cooling horn, That mocks alike the goblet's brittle frame, Its costlier potions, and its nobler name. To _Mary_ first the brimming draught is given By toil made welcome as the dews of heaven, And never lip that press'd its homely edge Had kinder blessings or a heartier pledge.

Of wholesome viands here a banquet smiles, A common cheer for all;... e'en humble _Giles_, Who joys his trivial services to yield Amidst the fragrance of the open field; Oft doom'd in suffocating heat to bear The cobweb'd barn's impure and dusty air; To ride in murky state the panting steed, Destin'd aloft th' unloaded grain to tread, Where, in his path as heaps on heaps are thrown, He rears, and plunges the loose mountain down: Laborious task! with what delight when done Both horse and rider greet th' unclouded sun!

Yet by th' unclouded sun are hourly bred The bold assailants that surround thine head, Poor patient _Ball!_ and with insulting wing Roar in thine ears, and dart the piercing sting: In thy behalf the crest-wav'd boughs avail More than thy short-clipt remnant of a tail, A moving mockery, a useless name, A living proof of cruelty and shame. Shame to the man, whatever fame he bore, Who took from thee what man can ne'er restore, Thy weapon of defence, thy chiefest good, When swarming flies contending suck thy blood. Nor thine alone the suff'ring, thine the care, The fretful _Ewe_ bemoans an equal share; Tormented into sores, her head she hides, Or angry brushes from her new-shorn sides. Pen'd in the yard, e'en now at closing day Unruly _Cows_ with mark'd impatience stay, And vainly striving to escape their foes, The pail kick down; a piteous current flows.

Is't not enough that plagues like these molest? Must still another foe annoy their rest? He comes, the pest and terror of the yard, His full-fledg'd progeny's imperious guard; The GANDER;... spiteful, insolent, and bold, At the colt's footlock takes his daring hold: There, serpent-like, escapes a dreadful blow; And straight attacks a poor defenceless cow: Each booby goose th' unworthy strife enjoys, And hails his prowess with redoubled noise. Then back he stalks, of self-importance full, Seizes the shaggy foretop of the bull, Till whirl'd aloft he falls; a timely check, Enough to dislocate his worthless neck: For lo! of old, he boasts an honour'd wound; Behold that broken wing that trails the ground! Thus fools and bravoes kindred pranks pursue; As savage quite, and oft as fatal too. Happy the man that foils an envious elf, Using the darts of spleen to serve himself. As when by turns the strolling _Swine_ engage The utmost efforts of the bully's rage, Whose nibbling warfare on the grunter's side Is welcome pleasure to his oristly hide; Gently he stoops, or strecht at ease along, Enjoys the insults of the gabbling throng, That march exulting round his fallen head, As human victors trample on their dead.

Still TWILIGHT, welcome! Rest, how sweet art thou! Now eve o'erhangs the western cloud's thick brow: The far-stretch'd curtain of retiring light, With fiery treasures fraught; that on the sight Flash from its bulging sides, where darkness lours, In Fancy's eye, a chain of mould'ring tow'rs; Or craggy coasts just rising into view, Midst jav'lins dire, and darts of streaming blue.

Anon tir'd labourers bless their shelt'ring home, When MIDNIGHT, and the frightful TEMPEST come. The Farmer wakes, and sees with silent dread The angry shafts of Heaven gleam round his bed; The bursting cloud reiterated roars, Shakes his straw roof, and jars his bolted doors: The slow-wing'd storm along the troubled skies Spreads its dark course; the wind begins to rise; And full-leaf'd elms, his dwelling's shade by day, With mimic thunder give its fury way: Sounds in his chimney top a doleful peal, Midst pouring rain, or gusts of rattling hail; With tenfold danger low the tempest bends, And quick and strong the sulph'urous flame descends: The fright'ned mastiff from his kennel flies, And cringes at the door with piteous cries....

Where now's the trifler? where the child of pride? These are the moments when the heart is try'd! Nor lives the man with conscience e'er so clear, But feels a solemn, reverential fear; Feels too a joy relieve his aching breast, When the spent storm hath howl'd itself to rest. Still, welcome beats the long continued show'r, And sleep protracted, comes with double pow'r; Calm dreams of bliss bring on the morning sun, For every barn is fill'd, and HARVEST _done_!

Now, ere sweet SUMMER bids its long adieu, And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew, The bustling day and jovial night must come, The long accustom'd feast of HARVEST-HOME. No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright, Can give the philosophic mind delight; No triumph please while rage and death destroy: Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy. And where the joy, if rightly understood, Like cheerful praise for universal good? The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows, But free and pure the grateful current flows.

Behold the sound oak table's massy frame Bestride the kitchen floor! the careful dame And gen'rous host invite their friends around, While all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground, Are guests by right of custom:... old and young; And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng, With artizans that lent their dext'rous aid, When o'er each field the flaming sun-beams play'd,--

Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard, Though not one jelly trembles on the board, Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave; With all that made our great forefathers brave, Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours try'd, And cooks had Nature's judgment set aside. With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustic lore, The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er; A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound, As quick the frothing horn performs its round; Care's mortal foe; that sprightly joys imparts To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts. Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise, And crackling Music, with the frequent _Song_, Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.