Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, Ha, He!"

When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!"

WILLIAM BLAKE

210 FA LA LA

My mistress frowns when she should play;
I'll please her with a _Fa la la_.
Sometimes she chides, but I straightway
Present her with a _Fa la la_.

You lovers that have loves astray
May win them with a _Fa la la_.
Quick music's best, for still they say
None pleaseth like your _Fa la la_.

211 IT WAS A LOVER

It was a Lover, and his lasse,
_With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino_,
That ore the greene corne-field did passe,
In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,
When Birds do sing, _hey ding a ding, ding_:
Sweet Lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the Rie,
_With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino_,
These prettie Country folks would lie,
In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,
When Birds do sing, _hey ding a ding, ding_:
Sweet Lovers love the spring.

This Carroll they began that houre,
_With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino_,
How that a life was but a Flower,
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When Birds do sing, _hey ding a ding, ding_:
Sweet Lovers love the spring.

And therefore take the present time,
_With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino_;
For love is crownèd with the prime
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, _hey ding a ding, ding_:
Sweet lovers love the spring.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

212 HEY, NONNY NO!

_Hey, nonny no!_
Men are fools that wish to die!
Is't not fine to dance and sing
When the bells of death do ring?
Is't not fine to swim in wine,
And turn upon the toe,
And sing _Hey nonny no!_

When the winds blow and the seas flow?
_Hey, nonny no!_

213 TARANTELLA

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of the tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the dark of the vine verandah)?

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?

Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground.
No sound:
Only the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

HILAIRE BELLOC

214 "I LOVED A LASS"

I loved a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen:
But, fool as then I was,
I thought she loved me too:
But now, alas! she has left me,
_Falero, lero, loo!..._

And as abroad we walkèd
As lovers' fashion is,
Oft as we sweetly talkèd
The sun would steal a kiss.
The wind upon her lips
Likewise most sweetly blew;
But now, alas! she has left me
_Falero, lero, loo!_

Many a merry meeting
My love and I have had;
She was my only sweeting,
She made my heart full glad;
The tears stood in her eyes
Like to the morning dew:
But now, alas! she has left me,
_Falero, lero, loo!_

Her cheeks were like the cherry,
Her skin was white as snow;
When she was blithe and merry
She angel-like did show;
Her waist exceeding small,
The fives did fit her shoe:
But now, alas! she has left me,
_Falero, lero, loo!_

In summer time or winter
She had her heart's desire;
I still did scorn to stint her
From sugar, sack, or fire;
The world went round about,
No cares we ever knew:
But now, alas! she has left me,
_Falero, lero, loo!..._

No riches now can raise me,
No want make me despair;
No misery amaze me,
Nor yet for want I care.
I have lost a world itself,
My earthly heaven, adieu,
Since she, alas! hath left me,
_Falero, lero, loo...._

GEORGE WITHER

215 GREEN GRASS

_A dis, a dis, a green grass,_
_A dis, a dis, a dis_;
Come all you pretty fair maids
And dance along with us.

For we are going roving,
A roving in this land;
We take this pretty fair maid,
We take her by the hand.

She shall get a duke, my dear,
As duck do get a drake;
And she shall have a young prince,
For her own fair sake.

And if this young prince chance to die,
She shall get another;
The bells will ring, and the birds will sing,
And we clap hands together.

216 THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER

When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire,
Full well I served my master for more than seven year,
Till I took up to poaching--as you shall quickly hear:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!

As mé and my cómrade were setting of a snare,
Twas then we spied the gamekeeper, for him we did not care,
For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er anywhere:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!

As me and my comrade were setting four or five,
And taking on 'em up again we caught a hare alive,
We took the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!

I threw him on my shoulder, and then we trudged home,
We took him to a neighbour's house and sold him for a crown
We sold him for a crown, my boys, but I did not tell you where:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!

Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire,
Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare,
Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:[96]
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!

217 THE MEN OF GOTHAM

Seamen three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine--
_And your ballast is old wine_.

Who art thóu, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be--
_In a bowl Care may not be_.

Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No; in charmèd bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine--
_And your ballast is old wine_.

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK

218 EARLY MORNING MEADOW SONG

Now some may drink old vintage wine
To ladies gowned with rustling silk,
But we will drink to dairymaids,
And drink to them in rum and milk--
O, it's up in the morning early,
When the dew is on the grass,
And St. John's bell rings for matins,
And St. Mary's rings for mass!

The merry skylarks soar and sing,
And seem to Heaven very near--
Who knows what blessed inns they see,
What holy drinking songs they hear?
O, it's up in the morning early,
When the dew is on the grass,
And St. John's bell rings for matins,
And St. Mary's rings for mass!

The mushrooms may be priceless pearls
A queen has lost beside the stream;
But rum is melted rubies when
It turns the milk to golden cream!
O, it's up in the morning early,
When the dew is on the grass,
And St. John's bell rings for matins,
And St. Mary's rings for mass!

CHARLES DALMON

219 DABBLING IN THE DEW

Oh, where are you going to, my pretty little dear,
With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair?
I'm going a-milking, kind sir, she answered me:
And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!

Suppose I were to clothe you, my pretty little dear,
In a green silken gown and the amethyst rare?
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!

Suppose I were to carry you, my pretty little dear,
In a chariot with horses, a grey gallant pair?
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!

Suppose I were to feast you, my pretty little dear,
With dainties on silver, the whole of the year?
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!

O but London's a city, my pretty little dear,
And all men are gallant and brave that are there--
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!

O fine clothes and dainties and carriages so rare
Bring grey to the cheeks and silver to the hair;
What's a ring on the finger if rings are round the eye?
But it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!

220 BONNY LASSIE O!

O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O!
To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there,
With the dark dishevelled hair,
Bonny lassie O!

The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O!
Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see
The shed I've made for thee,
Bonny lassie O!

'Tis agen the running brook, bonny lassie O!
In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky,
And a bush to keep us dry,
Bonny lassie O!

There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O!
There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold,
And the arum leaves unrolled,
Bonny lassie O!

O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O!
With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin
Blushing, thy praise to win,
Bonny lassie O!

I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O!
When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean,
And the moonbeam looks between,
Bonny lassie O!

JOHN CLARE

221 THE MAD MAID'S SONG

Good-morrow to the Day so fair,
Good-morning, Sir, to you:
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this Prim-rose too,
Good-morrow to each maid,
That will with flowers the Tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and welladay!
For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee
Which bore my Love away.

Ile seek him in your Bonnet brave,
Ile seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now, I think they've made his grave
I' the bed of strawburies.

Ile seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold Earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, Sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not, though he be dead,
He knowes well who do love him,
And who with green-turfes reare his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender (Pray take heed);
With bands of Cowslips bind him,
And bring him home--but 't is decreed
That I shall never find him.

ROBERT HERRICK

222 TELL ME WHERE IS FANCIE BRED

Tell me where is Fancie bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourishèd?
Replie, replie!
It is engendered in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancie dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancie's knell:
Ile begin it:
_Ding, dong, bell._
_All._ _Ding, dong, bell._

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

223 MUSIC

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory--
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

224 THE BELLS OF SHANDON

With deep affection and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood,
Fling around my cradle their magic spells.
On this I ponder where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music spoke naught to thine;
For memory, dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling old "Adrian's Mole" in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;
But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.
O! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow; while on Tower and Kiosk, O!
In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,
And loud in air, calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summit of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom I freely grant them;
But there is an anthem more dear to me,--
'Tis the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT)

225 UPON A RING OF BELLS

Bells have wide mouths and tongues, but are too weak,
Have they not help, to sing, or talk or speak.
But if you move them they will mak't appear,
By speaking they'll make all the Town to hear.
When Ringers handle them with Art and Skill,
They then the ears of their Observers fill,
With such brave Notes, they ting and tang so well
As to out strip all with their ding, dong, Bell.

_Comparison_

These Bells are like the Powers of my Soul;
Their Clappers to the Passions of my mind;
The Ropes by which my Bells are made to tole,
Are Promises (I by experience find.)
My body is the Staple where they hang,
My graces they which do ring ev'ry Bell:
Nor is there any thing gives such a tang,
When by these Ropes these Ringers ring them well.
Let not my Bells these Ringers want, nor Ropes;
Yea let them have room for to swing and sway:
To toss themselves deny them not their Scopes.
Lord! in my Steeple give them room to play.
If they do tole, ring out, or chime all in,
They drown the tempting tinckling Voice of Vice:
Lord! when my Bells have gone, my Soul has bin
As 'twere a tumbling in this Paradice!
Or if these Ringers do the Changes ring,
Upon my Bells, they do such Musick make,
My Soul then (Lord) cannot but bounce and sing,
So greatly her they with their Musick take.
But Boys (my Lusts) into my Belfry go,
And pull these Ropes, but do no Musick make
They rather turn my Bells by what they do,
Or by disorder make my Steeple shake.
Then, Lord! I pray thee keep my Belfry Key,
Let none but Graces meddle with these Ropes:
And when these naughty Boys come, say them Nay.
From such Ringers of Musick there's no hopes.
O Lord! If thy poor Child might have his will,
And might his meaning freely to thee tell;
He never of this Musick has his fill,
There's nothing to him like thy ding, dong, Bell.

JOHN BUNYAN

226 THE BELFRY

Dark is the stair, and humid the old walls
Wherein it winds, on worn stones, up the tower.
Only by loophole chinks at intervals
Pierces the late glow of this August hour.

Two truant children climb the stairway dark,
With joined hands, half in glee and half in fear,
The boy mounts brisk, the girl hangs back to hark
If the gruff sexton their light footsteps hear.

Dazzled at last they gain the belfry-room.
Barred rays through shutters hover across the floor
Dancing in dust; so fresh they come from gloom
That breathless they pause wondering at the door.

How hushed it is! what smell of timbers old
From cobwebbed beams! The warm light here and there
Edging a darkness, sleeps in pools of gold,
Or weaves fantastic shadows through the air.

How motionless the huge bell! Straight and stiff,
Ropes through the floor rise to the rafters dim.
The shadowy round of metal hangs, as if
No force could ever lift its gleamy rim.

A child's awe, a child's wonder, who shall trace
What dumb thoughts on its waxen softness write
In such a spell-brimmed, time-forgotten place,
Bright in that strangeness of approaching night?

As these two gaze, their fingers tighter press;
For suddenly the slow bell upward heaves
Its vast mouth, the cords quiver at the stress,
And ere the heart prepare, the ear receives

Full on its delicate sense the plangent stroke
Of violent, iron, reverberating sound.
As if the tower in all its stones awoke,
Deep echoes tremble, again in clangour drowned,

That starts without a whir of frighted wings
And holds these young hearts shaken, hushed, and thrilled,
Like frail reeds in a rushing stream, like strings
Of music, or like trees with tempest filled,

And rolls in wide waves out o'er the lone land,
Tone following tone toward the far-setting sun,
Till where in fields long shadowed reapers stand
Bowed heads look up, and lo, the day is done....

LAURENCE BINYON

227 IL PENSEROSO

... Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musicall, most melancholy!
Thee chauntress of the Woods among
I woo to hear thy eeven-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heaven's wide pathles way,
And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a Plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off _Curfeu_ sound
Over some wide-watered shoar,
Swinging slow with sullen roar:
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Som still removèd place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belman's drousie charm
To bless the dores from nightly harm....

JOHN MILTON

228 CHIMES

Brief, on a flying night,
From the shaken tower,
A flock of bells take flight,
And go with the hour.

Like birds from the cote to the gales,
Abrupt--O hark!
A fleet of bells set sails,
And go to the dark.

Sudden the cold airs swing,
Alone, aloud,
A verse of bells takes wing
And flies with the cloud.

ALICE MEYNELL

229 CITIES DROWNED

Cities drowned in olden time
Keep, they say, a magic chime
Rolling up from far below
When the moon-led waters flow.

So within me, ocean deep,
Lies a sunken world asleep.
Lest its bells forget to ring,
Memory! set the tide a-swing!

HENRY NEWBOLT

230 THE BELL-MAN

From noise of Scare-fires rest ye free,
From Murders--_Benedicite_.
From all mischances, that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night:
Mercie secure ye all, and keep
The Goblin from ye, while ye sleep.
Past one aclock, and almost two,
My Masters all, _Good day to you_!

ROBERT HERRICK

AUTUMN LEAVES: WINTER SNOW.

231 TO MEADOWS

Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been filled with flowers:
And ye the Walks have been
Where Maids have spent their houres.

You have beheld, how they
With _Wicker Arks_ did come
To kisse, and beare away
The richer Couslips home.

Ye have heard them sweetly sing
And seen them in a Round:
Each Virgin, like a Spring,
With Hony-succles crowned.

But now, we see, none here,
Whose silverie feet did tread,
And with dishevelled Haire,
Adorned this smoother Mead.

Like Unthrifts, having spent,
Your stock, and needy grown,
Ye are left here to lament
Your poore estates, alone.

ROBERT HERRICK

232 THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

The days are cold, the nights are long,
The North wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,
Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at the sparkling light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane
Bedropped with rain:
Then, little darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day.

DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

233 TO AUTUMN

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells--

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

JOHN KEATS

234 THE SOLITARY REAPER

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo bird.
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago;
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

235 "THE HEAVING ROSES OF THE HEDGE ARE STIRRED"

The heaving roses of the hedge are stirred
By the sweet breath of summer, and the bird
Makes from within his jocund voice be heard.

The winds that kiss the roses sweep the sea
Of uncut grass, whose billows rolling free
Half drown the hedges which part lea from lea.

But soon shall look the wondering roses down
Upon an empty field cut close and brown,
That lifts no more its height against their own.

And in a little while those roses bright,
Leaf after leaf, shall flutter from their height,
And on the reapèd fields lie pink and white.

And yet again the bird that sings so high
Shall ask the snow for alms with piteous cry;
Take fright in his bewildering bower, and die.

CANON DIXON

236 AUTUMN

A DIRGE

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying;
And the year
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying.
Come, months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling
For the year;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling.
Come, months, come away;
Put on white, black, and grey;
Let your light sisters play--
Ye, follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

237 "WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY"

When that I was and a little tinie boy,
_With hey, ho, the winde and the raine_:
A foolish thing was but a toy,
_For the raine it raineth every day_.

But when I came to man's estate,
_With hey, ho, the winde and the raine_:
'Gainst Knaves and Theeves men shut their gate,
_For the raine it raineth every day_.

But when I came, alas, to wive,
_With hey, ho, the winde and the raine_:
By swaggering could I never thrive,
_For the raine it raineth every day_.

But when I came unto my beds,
_With hey, ho, the wind and the raine_,
With tos-pottes still had drunken heades,--
_For the raine it raineth every day_.

A great while ago the world begon,
_With hey, ho, the winde and the raine_,
But that's all one, our Play is done,
_And we'll strive to please you every day_.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

238 SONG

The feathers of the willow
Are half of them grown yellow
Above the swelling stream;
And ragged are the bushes,
And rusty are the rushes
And wild the clouded gleam.

The thistle now is older,
His stalk begins to moulder,
His head is white as snow;
The branches all are barer,
The linnet's song is rarer
The robin pipeth now.

CANON DIXON

239 FALL, LEAVES, FALL

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

EMILY BRONTË

240 THE SANDS OF DEE

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee;"
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drownèd maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.

CHARLES KINGSLEY

241 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

242 ODE TO THE WEST WIND

I

O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystàlline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O, uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

243 THAT WIND

That wind, I used to hear it swelling;
With joy divinely deep;
You might have seen my hot tears welling,
But rapture made me weep.

I used to love on winter nights
To lie and dream alone
Of all the rare and real delights
My lonely years had known;

And oh!--above the best--of those
That coming time should bear,
Like heaven's own glorious stars they rose,
Still beaming bright and fair.

EMILY BRONTË

244 A FROSTY NIGHT

_Mother._ Alice, dear, what ails you,
Dazed and white and shaken?
Has the chill night numbed you?
Is it fright you have taken?

_Alice._ Mother, I am very well,
I felt never better;
Mother, do not hold me so,
Let me write my letter.

_Mother._ Sweet, my dear, what ails you?
_Alice._ No, but I am well.
The night was cold and frosty,
There's no more to tell.

_Mother._ Ay, the night was frosty,
Coldly gaped the moon,
Yet the birds seemed twittering
Through green boughs of June.

Soft and thick the snow lay,
Stars danced in the sky,
Not all the lambs of May-day
Skip so bold and high.

Your feet were dancing, Alice,
Seemed to dance on air,
You looked a ghost or angel
In the starlight there.

Your eyes were frosted starlight,
Your heart, fire, and snow.
Who was it said "I love you?"
_Alice._ Mother, let me go!

ROBERT GRAVES

245 IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passèd joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbèd sense to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme.

JOHN KEATS

246 A SONG OF WINTER

Cold cold!
Cold to-night is broad Moylurg,
Higher the snow than the mountain-range,
The deer cannot get at their food.

Cold till Doom!
The storm has spread over all:
A river is each furrow upon the slope,
Each ford a full pool.

A great tidal sea is each loch,
A full loch is each pool:
Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross,
No more can two feet get there.

The fish of Ireland are a-roaming,
There is no strand which the wave does not pound,
Not a town there is in the land,
Not a bell is heard, no crane talks.

The wolves of Cuan-wood get
Neither rest nor sleep in their lair,
The little wren cannot find
Shelter in her nest on the slope of Lon.

Keen wind and cold ice
Has burst upon the little company of birds,
The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking,
Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood.

Cosy our pot on its hook,
Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon:
The snow has crushed the wood here,
Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo.

Glenn Rye's ancient bird
From the bitter wind gets grief;
Great her misery and her pain,
The ice will get into her mouth.

From flock and from down to rise--
Take it to heart!--were folly for thee;
Ice in heaps on every ford--
That is why I say "cold"!

247 COLD BLOWS THE WIND

Cauld blows the wind frae north to south,
And drift is driving sairly;
The sheep are couring[97] in the heugh,[98]
Oh sirs! it's winter fairly.
Now up in the morning's no' for me,
Up in the morning early;
I'd rather gae supperless to my bed,
Than rise in the morning early.

Loud rairs the blast amang the woods,
The branches tirling barely,
Amang the chimley taps it thuds,
And frost is nippin sairly.
Now up in the morning's no' for me,
Up in the morning early;
To sit a' the night I'd rather agree,
Than rise in the morning early.

The sun peeps o'er the southlan' hill,
Like ony tim'rous carlie[99];
Just blinks a wee, then sinks again,
And that we find severely.
Now up in the morning's no' for me,
Up in the morning early;
When snaw blaws into the chimley cheek,
Wha'd rise in the morning early.

Nae linties[100] lilt on hedge or bush,
Poor things, they suffer sairly;
In cauldrife[101] quarters a' the night,
A' day they feed but sparely.
Now up in the morning's no' for me,
Up in the morning early;
Nae fate can be waur,[102] in winter time,
Than rise in the morning early.

JOHN HAMILTON

248 SKATING

... So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle; with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the reflex of a star
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
In rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me--even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep....

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

249 LONDON SNOW

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled--marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,
"O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!"
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm
they have broken.

ROBERT BRIDGES

250 FOR SNOW

Oh the falling Snow!
Oh the falling Snow!
Where does it all come from?
Whither does it go?
Never never laughing,
Never never weeping,
Falling in its Sleep,
Forever ever sleeping--
From what Sleep of Heaven
Does it flow, and go
Into what Sleep of Earth,
The falling falling Snow?

ELEANOR FARJEON

251 VELVET SHOES

Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as a white cow's milk,
More beautiful
Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes:
Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
On white silence below.
We shall walk in the snow.

ELINOR WYLIE

252 LUCY GRAY

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night--
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"

At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;--and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.

They wept--and, turning homeward, cried
"In heaven we all shall meet!"
--When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall:

And then an open field they crossed,
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came:

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

253 GONE WERE BUT THE WINTER COLD

"Gane were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.

"Cauld's the snaw at my head,
And cauld at my feet,
And the finger o' death is at my e'en
Closing them to sleep,

"Let nane tell my father,
Or my mither sae dear;
I'll meet them baith in heaven
At the Spring o' the year."

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

254 A CHILD'S WINTER EVENING

The smothering dark engulfs relentlessly
With nightmare tread approaching steadfastly;
All horrors thicken as the daylight fails
And, is it wind, or some lost ghost that wails?

Tongue cannot tell the stories that beset,
With livid pictures blackness dense as jet,
Or that wild questioning--whence we are; and why;
If death is darkness; and why I am I.

The children look through the uneven pane
Out to the world, to bring them joy again;
But only snowflakes melting into mire
Without, within the red glow of the fire.

They long for something wonderful to break
This long-drawn winter wistfulness, and take
Shape in the darkness; threatening like Fate
There comes a hell-like crackling from the grate.

But hand in hand they urge themselves anear
And watch the cities burning bright and clear;
Faces diabolical and cliffs and halls
And strangely-pinnacled, molten castle walls.

Tall figures flicker on the ceiling stark
Then grimly fade into one ominous dark;
Dream terrors iron-bound throng on them apace,
And dusk with fire, and flames with shadows race.

GWEN JOHN

255 A CAROL FOR SAINT STEPHEN'S DAY

Seynt Stevene was a clerk,
In kyng Herowdės halle,
And servyd him of bred and cloth,
As every kyng befalle.

Stevyn out of Kechoun cam,
Wyth boris bed on honde,
He saw a sterr was fayr and bryght
Over Bedlem stonde.

He kyst adoun the bores hed,
And went into the halle:
"I forsake the, kyng Herowde,
And thi werkės alle.

"I forsak the, kyng Herowde,
And thi werkės alle:
Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born,
Is better than we alle."

"Quhat eylyt the, Stevene?
Quhat is the befalle?
Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk
In kyng Herowdės halle?"

"Lakyt me neyther mete ne drynk
In kyng Herowdės halle;
Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born,
Is better than we alle."

"Quhat eylyt the, Stevyn, art thu wod?
Or thu gynnyst to brede?
Lakyt the eyther gold or fe,
Or ony rychė wede?"

"Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe,
Ne non rychė wede;
Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born,
Shal helpyn us at our nede."

"That is al so soth, Stevyn,
Al so soth, I wys,
As this capon crowė schel
That lyth her in myn dych."

That word was not so sonė seyd,
That wordė in that halle,
The capon crew, _Christus natus est!_
Among the lordės alle.

"Rysyt up, myn túrmentowres
Be to and al be on,
And ledyt Stevyn out of this town,
And stonyt hym wyth ston."

Tokyn hem Stevene,
And stonyd hym in the way:
And therfor is his evyn
On Crystės owyn day.

256 THE BURNING BABE

As I in hoary winter's night
Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat,
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye
To view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright,
Did in the air appear:
Who, scorchèd with excessive heat,
Such floods of tears did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames,
Which with his tears were fed:
"Alas!" quoth he, "but newly born,
In fiery heats I fry,[103]
Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire, but I!

My faultless breast the furnace is,
The fuel wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,
The ashes shames and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on,
And Mercy blows the coals;
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men's defilèd souls:
For which, as now on fire I am,
To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath,
To wash them in my blood."
With this he vanished out of sight,
And swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto my mind
That it was Christmas Day.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL

257 THE HOLLY AND THE IVY

The holly and the ivy,
Now both are full-well grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown.
_O the rising of the sun,_
_The running of the deer,_
_The playing of the merry Organ,_
_Sweet singing in the quire._
_Sweet singing in the quire._

The holly bears a blossom,
As white as lily-flower;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,
To be our sweet Saviour.
_O the rising of the sun_,...

The holly bears a berry,
As red as any blood;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,
To do poor sinners good.
_O the rising of the sun_,...

The holly bears a prickle,
As sharp as any thorn;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,
On Christmas Day in the morn.
_O the rising of the sun_,...

The holly bears a bark,
As bitter as any gall;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,
For to redeem us all.
_O the rising of the sun_,...

The holly and the ivy,
Now both are full well grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown.

_O the rising of the sun,_
_The running of the deer,_
_The playing of the merry Organ,_
_Sweet singing in the quire._
_Sweet singing in the quire._

258 WELCOME YULE!

... Wolcum be thu, hevene kyng,
Wolcum, born in on morwenyng,
Wolcum for home[104] we shal syng,
Wolcum yol.

Wolcum be ye Stefne and Jon,
Wolcum Innocentes everychon,
Wolcum Thomas martyr on,
Wolcum yol.

Wolcum be ye, good newe yere,
Wolcum twelthe-day, bothe infer,[105]
Wolcum syentės lef[106] and der,
Wolcum yol.

Wolcum be ye Candylmesse,
Wolcum be ye qwyn of blys,
Wolcum both to mor and lesse,
Wolcum yol.

Wolcum be ye that am her,[107]
Wolcum alle and mak good cher,
Wolcum alle another yer,
Wolcum yol.

259 NAY, IVY, NAY

_Nay, Ivy, nay,_
_Hyt shal not be, I wys;_
_Let Holy hafe the maystry,_
_As the maner[108] ys._

Holy stond in the halle,
Fayre to behold;
Ivy stond wythout the dore,
She ys ful sore a-cold.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...

Holy and hys mery men,
They dawnsyn and they syng;
Ivy and hur maydenys,
They wepyn and they wryng.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...

Ivy hath a kybe,[109]
She kaght yt wyth the colde,
So mot thay all haf ae,
That wyth Ivy hold.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...

Holy hath berys,
As rede as any rose,
The foster[110] and the hunter
Kepe hem[111] fro the doos.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...

Ivy hath berys,
As blake as any slo,
Ther com the oulė,
And ete hym as she goo.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...

Holy hath byrdys,
A ful fayre flok,
The nyghtyngale, the poppynguy,
The gayntyl lavyrok.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...

Gode Ivy [tell me]
What byrdys ast thu?[112]
Non but the howlat,
That kreye[113] how, how!

_Nay, Ivy, nay,
Hyt shal not be, I wys,
Let Holy hafe the maystry,
As the maner ys._

260 TU-WHIT TO-WHO

When Isicles hang by the wall,
And Dicke the shepheard blowes his naile,
And Tom beares Logges into the hall,
And Milke comes frozen home in paile:
When blood is nipt, and waies be fowle,
Then nightly sings the staring Owle,
_Tu-whit to-who_
A merrie note,
While greasie Jone doth keele[114] the pot.

When all aloud the winde doth blow,
And coifing drownes the Parson's saw;
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marrian's nose lookes red and raw;
When roasted Crabs[115] hisse in the bowle,
Then nightly sings the staring Owle,
_Tu-whit to-who_
A merrie note,
While greasy Jone doth keele the pot.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

261 BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND

Blow, blow, thou winter winde,
Thou art not so unkinde
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keene,
Because thou art not seene,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho, unto the green holly,
Most friendship is fayning, most Loving meere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly,
This Life is most jolly.

Freize, freize, thou bitter skie,
That dost not bight so nigh
As benefitts forgot;
Though thou the waters warpe,
Thy sting is not so sharpe,
As friend remembered not.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly,
Most friendship is fayning, most Loving meere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly,
This Life is most jolly.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

"LIKE STARS UPON SOME GLOOMY GROVE"

262 SPRING QUIET

Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing.

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
"We spread no snare;

"Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.

"Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

263 A WIDOW BIRD

A widow bird sat mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,
The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

264 ECHO'S LAMENT FOR NARCISSUS