Chapter II (1)

A thing all consequence here takes the lead, Reigning knight-errant oer this dirty breed-- A bailiff he, and who so great to brag Of law and all its terrors as Bumtagg; Fawning a puppy at his master's side And frowning like a wolf on all beside; Who fattens best where sorrow worst appears And feeds on sad misfortune's bitterest tears? Such is Bumtagg the bailiff to a hair, The worshipper and demon of despair, Who waits and hopes and wishes for success At every nod and signal of distress, Happy at heart, when storms begin to boil, To seek the shipwreck and to share the spoil. Brave is this Bumtagg, match him if you can; For there's none like him living--save his man.

As every animal assists his kind Just so are these in blood and business joined; Yet both in different colours hide their art, And each as suits his ends transacts his part. One keeps the heart-bred villain full in sight, The other cants and acts the hypocrite, Smoothing the deed where law sharks set their gin Like a coy dog to draw misfortune in. But both will chuckle oer their prisoners' sighs And are as blest as spiders over flies. Such is Bumtagg, whose history I resign, As other knaves wait room to stink and shine; And, as the meanest knave a dog can brag, Such is the lurcher that assists Bumtagg.

_Nobody Cometh to Woo_

On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark,
And I opened the window to see,
When every maiden went by with her spark
But neer a one came to me.
And O dear what will become of me?
And O dear what shall I do,
When nobody whispers to marry me--
Nobody cometh to woo?

None's born for such troubles as I be:
If the sun wakens first in the morn
"Lazy hussy" my parents both call me,
And I must abide by their scorn,
For nobody cometh to marry me,
Nobody cometh to woo,
So here in distress must I tarry me--
What can a poor maiden do?

If I sigh through the window when Jerry
The ploughman goes by, I grow bold;
And if I'm disposed to be merry,
My parents do nothing but scold;
And Jerry the clown, and no other,
Eer cometh to marry or woo;
They think me the moral of mother
And judge me a terrible shrew.

For mother she hateth all fellows,
And spinning's my father's desire,
While the old cat growls bass with the bellows
If eer I hitch up to the fire.
I make the whole house out of humour,
I wish nothing else but to please,
Would fortune but bring a new comer
To marry, and make me at ease!

When I've nothing my leisure to hinder
I scarce get as far as the eaves;
Her head's instant out of the window
Calling out like a press after thieves.
The young men all fall to remarking,
And laugh till they're weary to see't,
While the dogs at the noise begin barking,
And I slink in with shame from the street.

My mother's aye jealous of loving,
My father's aye jealous of play,
So what with them both there's no moving,
I'm in durance for life and a day.
O who shall I get for to marry me?
Who will have pity to woo?
Tis death any longer to tarry me,
And what shall a poor maiden do?

_Distant Hills_

What is there in those distant hills
My fancy longs to see,
That many a mood of joy instils?
Say what can fancy be?

Do old oaks thicken all the woods,
With weeds and brakes as here?
Does common water make the floods,
That's common everywhere?

Is grass the green that clothes the ground?
Are springs the common springs?
Daisies and cowslips dropping round,
Are such the flowers she brings?

* * * * *

Are cottages of mud and stone,
By valley wood and glen,
And their calm dwellers little known
Men, and but common men,

That drive afield with carts and ploughs?
Such men are common here,
And pastoral maidens milking cows
Are dwelling everywhere.

If so my fancy idly clings
To notions far away,
And longs to roam for common things
All round her every day,

Right idle would the journey be
To leave one's home so far,
And see the moon I now can see
And every little star.

And have they there a night and day,
And common counted hours?
And do they see so far away
This very moon of ours?

* * * * *

I mark him climb above the trees
With one small [comrade] star,
And think me in my reveries--
He cannot shine so far.

* * * * *

The poets in the tales they tell
And with their happy powers
Have made lands where their fancies dwell
Seem better lands than ours.

Why need I sigh far hills to see
If grass is their array,
While here the little paths go through
The greenest every day?

Such fancies fill the restless mind,
At once to cheat and cheer
With thought and semblance undefined,
Nowhere and everywhere.

MIDDLE PERIOD 1824-1836

_The Stranger_

When trouble haunts me, need I sigh? No, rather smile away despair; For those have been more sad than I, With burthens more than I could bear; Aye, gone rejoicing under care Where I had sunk in black despair.

When pain disturbs my peace and rest, Am I a hopeless grief to keep, When some have slept on torture's breast And smiled as in the sweetest sleep, Aye, peace on thorns, in faith forgiven, And pillowed on the hope of heaven?

Though low and poor and broken down, Am I to think myself distrest? No, rather laugh where others frown And think my being truly blest; For others I can daily see More worthy riches worse than me.

Aye, once a stranger blest the earth Who never caused a heart to mourn, Whose very voice gave sorrow mirth-- And how did earth his worth return? It spurned him from its lowliest lot, The meanest station owned him not;

An outcast thrown in sorrow's way, A fugitive that knew no sin, Yet in lone places forced to stray-- Men would not take the stranger in. Yet peace, though much himself he mourned, Was all to others he returned.

* * * * *

His presence was a peace to all, He bade the sorrowful rejoice. Pain turned to pleasure at his call, Health lived and issued from his voice. He healed the sick and sent abroad The dumb rejoicing in the Lord.

The blind met daylight in his eye, The joys of everlasting day; The sick found health in his reply; The cripple threw his crutch away. Yet he with troubles did remain And suffered poverty and pain.

Yet none could say of wrong he did, And scorn was ever standing bye; Accusers by their conscience chid, When proof was sought, made no reply. Yet without sin he suffered more Than ever sinners did before.

_Song's Eternity_

What is song's eternity? Come and see. Can it noise and bustle be? Come and see. Praises sung or praises said Can it be? Wait awhile and these are dead-- Sigh, sigh; Be they high or lowly bred They die.

What is song's eternity?
Come and see.
Melodies of earth and sky,
Here they be.
Song once sung to Adam's ears
Can it be?
Ballads of six thousand years
Thrive, thrive;
Songs awaken with the spheres
Alive.

Mighty songs that miss decay,
What are they?
Crowds and cities pass away
Like a day.
Books are out and books are read;
What are they?
Years will lay them with the dead--
Sigh, sigh;
Trifles unto nothing wed,
They die.

Dreamers, mark the honey bee;
Mark the tree
Where the blue cap "_tootle tee_"
Sings a glee
Sung to Adam and to Eve
Here they be.
When floods covered every bough,
Noah's ark
Heard that ballad singing now;
Hark, hark,

"_Tootle tootle tootle tee_"--
Can it be
Pride and fame must shadows be?
Come and see--
Every season own her own;
Bird and bee
Sing creation's music on;
Nature's glee
Is in every mood and tone
Eternity.

_The Old Cottagers_

The little cottage stood alone, the pride Of solitude surrounded every side. Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall; A garden with its hawthorn hedge was all The space between.--Green light did pass Through one small window, where a looking-glass Placed in the parlour, richly there revealed A spacious landscape and a blooming field. The pasture cows that herded on the moor Printed their footsteps to the very door, Where little summer flowers with seasons blow And scarcely gave the eldern leave to grow. The cuckoo that one listens far away Sung in the orchard trees for half the day; And where the robin lives, the village guest, In the old weedy hedge the leafy nest Of the coy nightingale was yearly found, Safe from all eyes as in the loneliest ground; And little chats that in bean stalks will lie A nest with cobwebs there will build, and fly Upon the kidney bean that twines and towers Up little poles in wreaths of scarlet flowers.

There a lone couple lived, secluded there From all the world considers joy or care, Lived to themselves, a long lone journey trod, And through their Bible talked aloud to God; While one small close and cow their wants maintained, But little needing, and but little gained. Their neighbour's name was peace, with her they went, With tottering age, and dignified content, Through a rich length of years and quiet days, And filled the neighbouring village with their praise.

_Young Lambs_

The spring is coming by a many signs; The trays are up, the hedges broken down, That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines Like some old antique fragment weathered brown. And where suns peep, in every sheltered place, The little early buttercups unfold A glittering star or two--till many trace The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold. And then a little lamb bolts up behind The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe, And then another, sheltered from the wind, Lies all his length as dead--and lets me go Close bye and never stirs but baking lies, With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.

_Early Nightingale_

When first we hear the shy-come nightingales, They seem to mutter oer their songs in fear, And, climb we eer so soft the spinney rails, All stops as if no bird was anywhere. The kindled bushes with the young leaves thin Let curious eyes to search a long way in, Until impatience cannot see or hear The hidden music; gets but little way Upon the path--when up the songs begin, Full loud a moment and then low again. But when a day or two confirms her stay Boldly she sings and loud for half the day; And soon the village brings the woodman's tale Of having heard the newcome nightingale.

_Winter Walk_

The holly bush, a sober lump of green, Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey, And smiles at winter be it eer so keen With all the leafy luxury of May. And O it is delicious, when the day In winter's loaded garment keenly blows And turns her back on sudden falling snows, To go where gravel pathways creep between Arches of evergreen that scarce let through A single feather of the driving storm; And in the bitterest day that ever blew The walk will find some places still and warm Where dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarm To little birds that flirt and start away.

_The Soldier_

Home furthest off grows dearer from the way; And when the army in the Indias lay Friends' letters coming from his native place Were like old neighbours with their country face. And every opportunity that came Opened the sheet to gaze upon the name Of that loved village where he left his sheep For more contented peaceful folk to keep; And friendly faces absent many a year Would from such letters in his mind appear. And when his pockets, chafing through the case, Wore it quite out ere others took the place, Right loath to be of company bereft He kept the fragments while a bit was left.

_Ploughman Singing_

Here morning in the ploughman's songs is met Ere yet one footstep shows in all the sky, And twilight in the east, a doubt as yet, Shows not her sleeve of grey to know her bye. Woke early, I arose and thought that first In winter time of all the world was I. The old owls might have hallooed if they durst, But joy just then was up and whistled bye A merry tune which I had known full long, But could not to my memory wake it back, Until the ploughman changed it to the song. O happiness, how simple is thy track. --Tinged like the willow shoots, the east's young brow Glows red and finds thee singing at the plough.

_Spring's Messengers_

Where slanting banks are always with the sun
The daisy is in blossom even now;
And where warm patches by the hedges run
The cottager when coming home from plough
Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set.
Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met
Setting up little tents about the fields
In sheltered spots.--Primroses when they get
Behind the wood's old roots, where ivy shields
Their crimpled, curdled leaves, will shine and hide.
Cart ruts and horses' footings scarcely yield
A slur for boys, just crizzled and that's all.
Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side,
And snow in scarce a feather's seen to fall.

_Letter in Verse_

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain For the mere joy of riding back again, When summer from the meadow carts the hay And school hours leave them half a day to play; So I with leisure on three sides a sheet Of foolscap dance with poesy's measured feet, Just to ride post upon the wings of time And kill a care, to friendship turned in rhyme. The muse's gallop hurries me in sport With much to read and little to divert, And I, amused, with less of wit than will, Run till I tire.--And so to cheat her still. Like children running races who shall be First in to touch the orchard wall or tree, The last half way behind, by distance vext, Turns short, determined to be first the next; So now the muse has run me hard and long-- I'll leave at once her races and her song; And, turning round, laugh at the letter's close And beat her out by ending it in prose.

_Snow Storm_

What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps Incessant batter at the window pane, Making our comfort feel as sweet again; And in the morning, when the tempest drops, At every cottage door mountainous heaps Of snow lie drifted, that all entrance stops Untill the beesom and the shovel gain The path, and leave a wall on either side. The shepherd rambling valleys white and wide With new sensations his old memory fills, When hedges left at night, no more descried, Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills, And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.

The boy that goes to fodder with surprise Walks oer the gate he opened yesternight. The hedges all have vanished from his eyes; Een some tree tops the sheep could reach to bite. The novel scene emboldens new delight, And, though with cautious steps his sports begin, He bolder shuffles the huge hills of snow, Till down he drops and plunges to the chin, And struggles much and oft escape to win-- Then turns and laughs but dare not further go; For deep the grass and bushes lie below, Where little birds that soon at eve went in With heads tucked in their wings now pine for day And little feel boys oer their heads can stray.

_Firwood_

The fir trees taper into twigs and wear The rich blue green of summer all the year, Softening the roughest tempest almost calm And offering shelter ever still and warm To the small path that towels underneath, Where loudest winds--almost as summer's breath-- Scarce fan the weed that lingers green below When others out of doors are lost in frost and snow. And sweet the music trembles on the ear As the wind suthers through each tiny spear, Makeshifts for leaves; and yet, so rich they show, Winter is almost summer where they grow.

_Grasshoppers_

Grasshoppers go in many a thumming spring And now to stalks of tasseled sow-grass cling, That shakes and swees awhile, but still keeps straight; While arching oxeye doubles with his weight. Next on the cat-tail-grass with farther bound He springs, that bends until they touch the ground.

_Field Path_

The beams in blossom with their spots of jet Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met; The level meadow grass was in the swath; The hedge briar rose hung right across the path, White over with its flowers--the grass that lay Bleaching beneath the twittering heat to hay Smelt so deliciously, the puzzled bee Went wondering where the honey sweets could be; And passer-bye along the level rows Stoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.

_Country Letter_

Dear brother robin this comes from us all With our kind love and could Gip write and all Though but a dog he'd have his love to spare For still he knows and by your corner chair The moment he comes in he lyes him down and seems to fancy you are in the town. This leaves us well in health thank God for that For old acquaintance Sue has kept your hat Which mother brushes ere she lays it bye and every sunday goes upstairs to cry Jane still is yours till you come back agen and neer so much as dances with the men and ned the woodman every week comes in and asks about you kindly as our kin and he with this and goody Thompson sends Remembrances with those of all our friends Father with us sends love untill he hears and mother she has nothing but her tears Yet wishes you like us in health the same and longs to see a letter with your name So loving brother don't forget to write Old Gip lies on the hearth stone every night Mother can't bear to turn him out of doors and never noises now of dirty floors Father will laugh but lets her have her way and Gip for kindness get a double pay So Robin write and let us quickly see You don't forget old friends no more than we Nor let my mother have so much to blame To go three journeys ere your letter came.

_From "January"_

Supper removed, the mother sits, And tells her tales by starts and fits. Not willing to lose time or toil, She knits or sews, and talks the while Something, that may be warnings found To the young listeners gaping round-- Of boys who in her early day Strolled to the meadow-lake to play, Where willows, oer the bank inclined Sheltered the water from the wind, And left it scarcely crizzled oer-- When one sank in, to rise no more! And how, upon a market-night, When not a star bestowed its light, A farmer's shepherd, oer his glass, Forgot that he had woods to pass: And having sold his master's sheep, Was overta'en by darkness deep. How, coming with his startled horse, To where two roads a hollow cross; Where, lone guide when a stranger strays, A white post points four different ways, Beside the woodride's lonely gate A murdering robber lay in wait. The frightened horse, with broken rein, Stood at the stable-door again; But none came home to fill his rack, Or take the saddle from his back; The saddle--it was all he bore-- The man was seen alive no more!-- In her young days, beside the wood, The gibbet in its terror stood: Though now decayed, tis not forgot, But dreaded as a haunted spot.--

She from her memory oft repeats Witches' dread powers and fairy feats: How one has oft been known to prance In cowcribs, like a coach, to France, And ride on sheep-trays from the fold A race-horse speed to Burton-hold; To join the midnight mystery's rout, Where witches meet the yews about: And how, when met with unawares, They turn at once to cats or hares, And race along with hellish flight, Now here, now there, now out of sight!-- And how the other tiny things Will leave their moonlight meadow-rings, And, unperceived, through key-holes creep, When all around have sunk to sleep, To feast on what the cotter leaves,-- Mice are not reckoned greater thieves. They take away, as well as eat, And still the housewife's eye they cheat, In spite of all the folks that swarm In cottage small and larger farm; They through each key-hole pop and pop, Like wasps into a grocer's shop, With all the things that they can win From chance to put their plunder in;-- As shells of walnuts, split in two By crows, who with the kernels flew; Or acorn-cups, by stock-doves plucked, Or egg-shells by a cuckoo sucked; With broad leaves of the sycamore They clothe their stolen dainties oer: And when in cellar they regale, Bring hazel-nuts to hold their ale; With bung-holes bored by squirrels well, To get the kernel from the shell; Or maggots a way out to win, When all is gone that grew within; And be the key-holes eer so high, Rush poles a ladder's help supply. Where soft the climbers fearless tread, On spindles made of spiders' thread. And foul, or fair, or dark the night, Their wild-fire lamps are burning bright: For which full many a daring crime Is acted in the summer-time;-- When glow-worm found in lanes remote Is murdered for its shining coat, And put in flowers, that nature weaves With hollow shapes and silken leaves, Such as the Canterbury bell, Serving for lamp or lantern well; Or, following with unwearied watch The flight of one they cannot match, As silence sliveth upon sleep, Or thieves by dozing watch-dogs creep, They steal from Jack-a-Lantern's tails A light, whose guidance never fails To aid them in the darkest night And guide their plundering steps aright. Rattling away in printless tracks, Some, housed on beetles' glossy backs, Go whisking on--and others hie As fast as loaded moths can fly: Some urge, the morning cock to shun, The hardest gallop mice can run, In chariots, lolling at their ease, Made of whateer their fancies please;-- Things that in childhood's memory dwell-- Scooped crow-pot-stone, or cockle-shell, With wheels at hand of mallow seeds, Where childish sport was stringing beads; And thus equipped, they softly pass Like shadows on the summer-grass, And glide away in troops together Just as the Spring-wind drives a feather. As light as happy dreams they creep, Nor break the feeblest link of sleep: A midge, if in their road a-bed, Feels not the wheels run oer his head, But sleeps till sunrise calls him up, Unconscious of the passing troop,--

Thus dame the winter-night regales With wonder's never-ceasing tales; While in a corner, ill at ease, Or crushing tween their father's knees, The children--silent all the while-- And een repressed the laugh or smile-- Quake with the ague chills of fear, And tremble though they love to hear; Starting, while they the tales recall, At their own shadows on the wall: Till the old clock, that strikes unseen Behind the picture-pasted screen Where Eve and Adam still agree To rob Life's fatal apple-tree, Counts over bed-time's hour of rest, And bids each be sleep's fearful guest. She then her half-told tales will leave To finish on to-morrow's eve;-- The children steal away to bed, And up the ladder softly tread; Scarce daring--from their fearful joys-- To look behind or make a noise; Nor speak a word! but still as sleep They secret to their pillows creep, And whisper oer, in terror's way, The prayers they dare no louder say; Then hide their heads beneath the clothes, And try in vain to seek repose: While yet, to fancy's sleepless eye, Witches on sheep-trays gallop by, And fairies, like a rising spark, Swarm twittering round them in the dark; Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares, And drops upon them unawares.

_November_

The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon;
And, if the sun looks through, tis with a face
Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon,
When done the journey of her nightly race,
Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place.
For days the shepherds in the fields may be,
Nor mark a patch of sky--blindfold they trace,
The plains, that seem without a bush or tree,
Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose,
Crouching and sleeping neath its grassy lair,
And scarcely startles, though the shepherd goes
Close by its home, and dogs are barking there;
The wild colt only turns around to stare
At passer by, then knaps his hide again;
And moody crows beside the road forbear
To fly, though pelted by the passing swain;
Thus day seems turned to night, and tries to wake in vain.

The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon,
And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light;
The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon,
And small birds chirp and startle with affright;
Much doth it scare the superstitious wight,
Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay;
While cow-boys think the day a dream of night,
And oft grow fearful on their lonely way,
Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.

Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings
Its murky prison round--then winds wake loud;
With sudden stir the startled forest sings
Winter's returning song-cloud races cloud.
And the horizon throws away its shroud,
Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye;
Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd,
And oer the sameness of the purple sky
Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.

At length it comes among the forest oaks,
With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high;
The scared, hoarse raven on its cradle croaks,
And stockdove-flocks in hurried terrors fly,
While the blue hawk hangs oer them in the sky.--
The hedger hastens from the storm begun,
To seek a shelter that may keep him dry;
And foresters low bent, the wind to shun,
Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher's muttering gun.

The ploughman hears its humming rage begin,
And hies for shelter from his naked toil;
Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin,
He bends and scampers oer the elting soil,
While clouds above him in wild fury boil,
And winds drive heavily the beating rain;
He turns his back to catch his breath awhile,
Then ekes his speed and faces it again,
To seek the shepherd's hut beside the rushy plain.

The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheat
The melancholy crow--in hurry weaves,
Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat,
Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves,
Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves.
There he doth dithering sit, and entertain
His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves;
Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en,
And wishing in his heart twas summer-time again.

Thus wears the month along, in checkered moods,
Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms;
One hour dies silent oer the sleepy woods,
The next wakes loud with unexpected storms;
A dreary nakedness the field deforms--
Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight,
Lives in the village still about the farms,
Where toil's rude uproar hums from morn till night
Noises, in which the ears of industry delight.

At length the stir of rural labour's still,
And industry her care awhile foregoes;
When winter comes in earnest to fulfil
His yearly task, at bleak November's close,
And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows;
When frost locks up the stream in chill delay
And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes,
For little birds--then toil hath time for play,
And nought but threshers' flails awake the dreary day.

_The Fens_

Wandering by the river's edge, I love to rustle through the sedge And through the woods of reed to tear Almost as high as bushes are. Yet, turning quick with shudder chill, As danger ever does from ill, Fear's moment ague quakes the blood, While plop the snake coils in the flood And, hissing with a forked tongue, Across the river winds along. In coat of orange, green, and blue Now on a willow branch I view, Grey waving to the sunny gleam, Kingfishers watch the ripple stream For little fish that nimble bye And in the gravel shallows lie.

Eddies run before the boats, Gurgling where the fisher floats, Who takes advantage of the gale And hoists his handkerchief for sail On osier twigs that form a mast-- While idly lies, nor wanted more, The spirit that pushed him on before.

There's not a hill in all the view, Save that a forked cloud or two Upon the verge of distance lies And into mountains cheats the eyes. And as to trees the willows wear Lopped heads as high as bushes are; Some taller things the distance shrouds That may be trees or stacks or clouds Or may be nothing; still they wear A semblance where there's nought to spare.

Among the tawny tasselled reed The ducks and ducklings float and feed. With head oft dabbing in the flood They fish all day the weedy mud, And tumbler-like are bobbing there, Heels topsy turvy in the air.

The geese in troops come droving up, Nibble the weeds, and take a sup; And, closely puzzled to agree, Chatter like gossips over tea. The gander with his scarlet nose When strife's at height will interpose; And, stretching neck to that and this, With now a mutter, now a hiss, A nibble at the feathers too, A sort of "pray be quiet do," And turning as the matter mends, He stills them into mutual friends; Then in a sort of triumph sings And throws the water oer his wings.

Ah, could I see a spinney nigh, A puddock riding in the sky Above the oaks with easy sail On stilly wings and forked tail, Or meet a heath of furze in flower, I might enjoy a quiet hour, Sit down at rest, and walk at ease, And find a many things to please. But here my fancy's moods admire The naked levels till they tire, Nor een a molehill cushion meet To rest on when I want a seat.

Here's little save the river scene And grounds of oats in rustling green And crowded growth of wheat and beans, That with the hope of plenty leans And cheers the farmer's gazing brow, Who lives and triumphs in the plough-- One sometimes meets a pleasant sward Of swarthy grass; and quickly marred The plough soon turns it into brown, And, when again one rambles down The path, small hillocks burning lie And smoke beneath a burning sky. Green paddocks have but little charms With gain the merchandise of farms; And, muse and marvel where we may, Gain mars the landscape every day-- The meadow grass turned up and copt, The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt, The hearth with fuel to supply For rest to smoke and chatter bye; Giving the joy of home delights, The warmest mirth on coldest nights. And so for gain, that joy's repay, Change cheats the landscape every day, Nor trees nor bush about it grows That from the hatchet can repose, And the horizon stooping smiles Oer treeless fens of many miles. Spring comes and goes and comes again And all is nakedness and fen.

_Spear Thistle_

Where the broad sheepwalk bare and brown [Yields] scant grass pining after showers, And winds go fanning up and down The little strawy bents and nodding flowers, There the huge thistle, spurred with many thorns, The suncrackt upland's russet swells adorns.

Not undevoid of beauty there they come, Armed warriors, waiting neither suns nor showers, Guarding the little clover plots to bloom While sheep nor oxen dare not crop their flowers Unsheathing their own knobs of tawny flowers When summer cometh in her hottest hours.

The pewit, swopping up and down And screaming round the passer bye, Or running oer the herbage brown With copple crown uplifted high, Loves in its clumps to make a home Where danger seldom cares to come.

The yellowhammer, often prest For spot to build and be unseen, Will in its shelter trust her nest When fields and meadows glow with green; And larks, though paths go closely bye, Will in its shade securely lie.

The partridge too, that scarce can trust The open downs to be at rest, Will in its clumps lie down, and dust And prune its horseshoe-circled breast, And oft in shining fields of green Will lay and raise its brood unseen.

The sheep when hunger presses sore May nip the clover round its nest; But soon the thistle wounding sore Relieves it from each brushing guest, That leaves a bit of wool behind, The yellowhammer loves to find.

The horse will set his foot and bite Close to the ground lark's guarded nest And snort to meet the prickly sight; He fans the feathers of her breast-- Yet thistles prick so deep that he Turns back and leaves her dwelling free.

Its prickly knobs the dews of morn Doth bead with dressing rich to see, When threads doth hang from thorn to thorn Like the small spinner's tapestry; And from the flowers a sultry smell Comes that agrees with summer well.

The bee will make its bloom a bed, The humble bee in tawny brown; And one in jacket fringed with red Will rest upon its velvet down When overtaken in the rain, And wait till sunshine comes again.

And there are times when travel goes Along the sheep tracks' beaten ways, Then pleasure many a praise bestows Upon its blossoms' pointed rays, When other things are parched beside And hot day leaves it in its pride.

_Idle Fame_

I would not wish the burning blaze
Of fame around a restless world,
The thunder and the storm of praise
In crowded tumults heard and hurled.
I would not be a flower to stand
The stare of every passer-bye;
But in some nook of fairyland,
Seen in the praise of beauty's eye.

_Approaching Night_

O take this world away from me; Its strife I cannot bear to see, Its very praises hurt me more Than een its coldness did before, Its hollow ways torment me now And start a cold sweat on my brow, Its noise I cannot bear to hear, Its joy is trouble to my ear, Its ways I cannot bear to see, Its crowds are solitudes to me. O, how I long to be agen That poor and independent man, With labour's lot from morn to night And books to read at candle light; That followed labour in the field From light to dark when toil could yield Real happiness with little gain, Rich thoughtless health unknown to pain: Though, leaning on my spade to rest, I've thought how richer folks were blest And knew not quiet was the best.

Go with your tauntings, go; Neer think to hurt me so; I'll scoff at your disdain. Cold though the winter blow, When hills are free from snow It will be spring again.

So go, and fare thee well, Nor think ye'll have to tell Of wounded hearts from me, Locked up in your hearts cell. Mine still at home doth dwell In its first liberty.

Bees sip not at one flower, Spring comes not with one shower, Nor shines the sun alone Upon one favoured hour, But with unstinted power Makes every day his own.

And for my freedom's sake With such I'll pattern take, And rove and revel on. Your gall shall never make Me honied paths forsake; So prythee get thee gone.

And when my toil is blest And I find a maid possest Of truth that's not in thee, Like bird that finds its nest I'll stop and take my rest; And love as she loves me.

_Farewell and Defiance to Love_

Love and thy vain employs, away From this too oft deluded breast! No longer will I court thy stay, To be my bosom's teazing guest. Thou treacherous medicine, reckoned pure, Thou quackery of the harassed heart, That kills what it pretends to cure, Life's mountebank thou art.

With nostrums vain of boasted powers, That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave; An asp hid in a group of flowers, That bites and stings when few perceive; Thou mock-truce to the troubled mind, Leading it more in sorrow's way, Freedom, that leaves us more confined, I bid thee hence away.

Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyond The resolution reason gave? Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond, That kept me once thy quiet slave, And made thy snare a spider's thread, Which een my breath can break in twain; Nor will I be, like Sampson, led To trust thy wiles again.

I took thee as my staff to guide Me on the road I did pursue, And when my weakness most relied Upon its strength it broke in two. I took thee as my friendly host That counsel might in dangers show, But when I needed thee the most I found thou wert my foe.

Tempt me no more with rosy cheeks, Nor daze my reason with bright eyes; I'm wearied with thy painted freaks, And sicken at such vanities: Be roses fine as eer they will, They, with the meanest, fade and die, And eyes, though thronged with darts to kill, Share like mortality. Feed the young bard, that madly sips His nectar-draughts from folly's flowers, Bright eyes, fair cheeks, and ruby lips, Till muses melt to honey showers; Lure him to thrum thy empty lays, While flattery listens to the chimes, Till words themselves grow sick with praise And stop for want of rhymes.

Let such be still thy paramours, And chaunt love's old and idle tune, Robbing the spring of all its flowers, And heaven of all her stars and moon, To gild with dazzling similes Blind folly's vain and empty lay: I'm sobered from such phantasies, So get thee hence away.

Nor bid me sigh for mine own cost, Nor count its loss, for mine annoy, Nor say my stubbornness hath lost A paradise of dainty joy: I'll not believe thee, till I know That sober reason turns an ape, And acts the harlequin, to show That cares in every shape,

Heart-achings, sighs, and grief-wrung tears, Shame-blushes at betrayed distress, Dissembled smiles, and jealous fears, Are nought but real happiness: Then will I mourn what now I brave, And suffer Celia's quirks to be (Like a poor fate-bewilder'd slave,) The rulers of my destiny.

I'll weep and sigh wheneer she wills To frown, and when she deigns to smile It shall be cure for all my ills, And, foolish still, I'll laugh the while; But till that comes, I'll bless the rules Experience taught, and deem it wise To hold thee as the game of fools, And all thy tricks despise.

_To John Milton_

_"From his honoured friend, William Davenant"_

Poet of mighty power, I fain Would court the muse that honoured thee, And, like Elisha's spirit, gain A part of thy intensity; And share the mantle which she flung Around thee, when thy lyre was strung.

Though faction's scorn at first did shun With coldness thy inspired song, Though clouds of malice passed thy sun, They could not hide it long; Its brightness soon exhaled away Dank night, and gained eternal day.

The critics' wrath did darkly frown Upon thy muse's mighty lay; But blasts that break the blossom down Do only stir the bay; And thine shall flourish, green and long, With the eternity of song.

Thy genius saw, in quiet mood, Gilt fashion's follies pass thee by, And, like the monarch of the wood, Towered oer it to the sky, Where thou couldst sing of other spheres, And feel the fame of future years.

Though bitter sneers and stinging scorns Did throng the muse's dangerous way, Thy powers were past such little thorns, They gave thee no dismay; The scoffer's insult passed thee by, Thou smild'st and mad'st him no reply.

Envy will gnaw its heart away To see thy genius gather root; And as its flowers their sweets display Scorn's malice shall be mute; Hornets that summer warmed to fly, Shall at the death of summer die.

Though friendly praise hath but its hour. And little praise with thee hath been; The bay may lose its summer flower, But still its leaves are green; And thine, whose buds are on the shoot, Shall only fade to change to fruit.

Fame lives not in the breath of words, In public praises' hue and cry; The music of these summer birds Is silent in a winter sky, When thine shall live and flourish on, Oer wrecks where crowds of fames are gone.

The ivy shuns the city wall, When busy clamorous crowds intrude, And climbs the desolated hall In silent solitude; The time-worn arch, the fallen dome, Are roots for its eternal home.

The bard his glory neer receives Where summer's common flowers are seen, But winter finds it when she leaves The laurel only green; And time from that eternal tree, Shall weave a wreath to honour thee;

A sunny wreath for poets meet, From Helicon's immortal soil, Where sacred Time with pilgrim feet Walks forth to worship, not to spoil, A wreath which Fame creates and bears, And deathless genius only heirs.

Nought but thy ashes shall expire; Thy genius, at thy obsequies, Shall kindle up its living fire And light the muse's skies; Ay, it shall rise, and shine, and be A sun in song's posterity.

_The Vanities of Life_

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.--_Solomon_

What are life's joys and gains?
What pleasures crowd its ways,
That man should take such pains
To seek them all his days?
Sift this untoward strife
On which thy mind is bent:
See if this chaff of life
Is worth the trouble spent.

Is pride thy heart's desire?
Is power thy climbing aim?
Is love thy folly's fire?
Is wealth thy restless game?
Pride, power, love, wealth, and all
Time's touchstone shall destroy,
And, like base coin, prove all
Vain substitutes for joy.

Dost think that pride exalts
Thyself in other's eyes,
And hides thy folly's faults,
Which reason will despise?
Dost strut, and turn, and stride,
Like walking weathercocks?
The shadow by thy side
Becomes thy ape, and mocks.

Dost think that power's disguise
Can make thee mighty seem?
It may in folly's eyes,
But not in worth's esteem,
When all that thou canst ask,
And all that she can give,
Is but a paltry mask
Which tyrants wear and live.

Go, let thy fancies range
And ramble where they may;
View power in every change,
And what is the display?
--The country magistrate,
The meanest shade in power,
To rulers of the state,
The meteors of an hour.

View all, and mark the end
Of every proud extreme,
Where flattery turns a friend,
And counterfeits esteem;
Where worth is aped in show,
That doth her name purloin,
Like toys of golden glow
That's sold for copper coin.

Ambition's haughty nod
With fancies may deceive,
Nay, tell thee thou'rt a god,
And wilt thou such believe?
Go, bid the seas be dry;
Go, hold earth like a ball,
Or throw thy fancies by,
For God can do it all.

Dost thou possess the dower
Of laws to spare or kill?
Call it not heavenly power
When but a tyrant's will.
Know what a God will do,
And know thyself a fool,
Nor, tyrant-like, pursue
Where He alone should rule.

O put away thy pride,
Or be ashamed of power
That cannot turn aside
The breeze that waves a flower.
Or bid the clouds be still:
Though shadows, they can brave
Thy poor power mocking will:
Then make not man a slave.

Dost think, when wealth is won,
Thy heart has its desire?
Hold ice up to the sun,
And wax before the fire;
Nor triumph oer the reign
Which they so soon resign;
In this world's ways they gain,
Insurance safe as thine.

Dost think life's peace secure
In house and in land?
Go, read the fairy lure
To twist a cord in sand;
Lodge stones upon the sky,
Hold water in a sieve,
Nor give such tales the lie,
And still thine own believe.

Whoso with riches deals,
And thinks peace bought and sold,
Will find them slipping eels,
That slide the firmest hold:
Though sweet as sleep with health
Thy lulling luck may be,
Pride may oerstride thy wealth,
And check prosperity.

Dost think that beauty's power
Life sweetest pleasure gives?
Go, pluck the summer flower,
And see how long it lives:
Behold, the rays glide on
Along the summer plain
Ere thou canst say "they're gone,"
And measure beauty's reign.

Look on the brightest eye,
Nor teach it to be proud;
View but the clearest sky,
And thou shalt find a cloud;
Nor call each face ye meet
An angel's, cause it's fair,
But look beneath your feet,
And think of what they are.

Who thinks that love doth live
In beauty's tempting show,
Shall find his hopes ungive,
And melt in reason's thaw.
Who thinks that pleasure lies
In every fairy bower,
Shall oft, to his surprise,
Find poison in the flower.

Dost lawless passions grasp?
Judge not thou deal'st in joy:
Its flowers but hide the asp,
Thy revels to destroy.
Who trusts an harlot's smile,
And by her wiles are led,
Plays, with a sword the while
Hung dropping oer his head.

Dost doubt my warning song?
Then doubt the sun gives light,
Doubt truth to teach thee wrong,
And wrong alone as right;
And live as lives the knave,
Intrigue's deceiving guest;
Be tyrant, or be slave,
As suits thy ends the best.

Or pause amid thy toils
For visions won and lost,
And count the fancied spoils,
If eer they quit the cost:
And if they still possess
Thy mind, as worthy things,
Plat straws with bedlam Bess,
And call them diamond rings.

Thy folly's past advice,
Thy heart's already won,
Thy fall's above all price,
So go, and be undone;
For all who thus prefer
The seeming great for small
Shall make wine vinegar,
And sweetest honey gall.

Wouldst heed the truths I sing,
To profit wherewithal,
Clip folly's wanton wing,
And keep her within call.
I've little else to give,
What thou canst easy try;
The lesson how to live
Is but to learn to die.

_Death_

Why should man's high aspiring mind Burn in him with so proud a breath, When all his haughty views can find In this world yields to death? The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise, The rich, the poor, the great, and small, Are each but worm's anatomies To strew his quiet hall.

Power may make many earthly gods, Where gold and bribery's guilt prevails, But death's unwelcome, honest odds Kick o'er the unequal scales. The flattered great may clamours raise Of power, and their own weakness hide, But death shall find unlooked-for ways To end the farce of pride,

An arrow hurtled eer so high, From een a giant's sinewy strength, In Time's untraced eternity Goes but a pigmy length; Nay, whirring from the tortured string, With all its pomp of hurried flight, Tis by the skylark's little wing Outmeasured in its height.

Just so man's boasted strength and power Shall fade before death's lightest stroke, Laid lower than the meanest flower, Whose pride oer-topt the oak; And he who, like a blighting blast, Dispeopled worlds with war's alarms Shall be himself destroyed at last By poor despised worms.

Tyrants in vain their powers secure, And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown, For unawed death at last is sure To sap the babels down. A stone thrown upward to the sky Will quickly meet the ground agen; So men-gods of earth's vanity Shall drop at last to men;

And Power and Pomp their all resign, Blood-purchased thrones and banquet halls. Fate waits to sack Ambition's shrine As bare as prison walls, Where the poor suffering wretch bows down To laws a lawless power hath passed; And pride, and power, and king, and clown Shall be Death's slaves at last.

Time, the prime minister of Death! There's nought can bribe his honest will. He stops the richest tyrant's breath And lays his mischief still. Each wicked scheme for power all stops, With grandeurs false and mock display, As eve's shades from high mountain tops Fade with the rest away.

Death levels all things in his march; Nought can resist his mighty strength; The palace proud, triumphal arch, Shall mete its shadow's length. The rich, the poor, one common bed Shall find in the unhonoured grave, Where weeds shall crown alike the head Of tyrant and of slave.

_The Fallen Elm_

Old elm, that murmured in our chimney top The sweetest anthem autumn ever made And into mellow whispering calms would drop When showers fell on thy many coloured shade And when dark tempests mimic thunder made-- While darkness came as it would strangle light With the black tempest of a winter night That rocked thee like a cradle in thy root-- How did I love to hear the winds upbraid Thy strength without--while all within was mute. It seasoned comfort to our hearts' desire, We felt thy kind protection like a friend And edged our chairs up closer to the fire, Enjoying comfort that was never penned. Old favourite tree, thou'st seen time's changes lower, Though change till now did never injure thee; For time beheld thee as her sacred dower And nature claimed thee her domestic tree. Storms came and shook thee many a weary hour, Yet stedfast to thy home thy roots have been; Summers of thirst parched round thy homely bower Till earth grew iron--still thy leaves were green. The children sought thee in thy summer shade And made their playhouse rings of stick and stone; The mavis sang and felt himself alone While in thy leaves his early nest was made. And I did feel his happiness mine own, Nought heeding that our friendship was betrayed, Friend not inanimate--though stocks and stones There are, and many formed of flesh and bones. Thou owned a language by which hearts are stirred Deeper than by a feeling clothed in word, And speakest now what's known of every tongue, Language of pity and the force of wrong. What cant assumes, what hypocrites will dare, Speaks home to truth and shows it what they are. I see a picture which thy fate displays And learn a lesson from thy destiny; Self-interest saw thee stand in freedom's ways-- So thy old shadow must a tyrant be. Tnou'st heard the knave, abusing those in power, Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free; Thou'st sheltered hypocrites in many a shower, That when in power would never shelter thee. Thou'st heard the knave supply his canting powers With wrong's illusions when he wanted friends; That bawled for shelter when he lived in showers And when clouds vanished made thy shade amends-- With axe at root he felled thee to the ground And barked of freedom--O I hate the sound Time hears its visions speak,--and age sublime Hath made thee a disciple unto time. --It grows the cant term of enslaving tools To wrong another by the name of right; Thus came enclosure--ruin was its guide, But freedom's cottage soon was thrust aside And workhouse prisons raised upon the site. Een nature's dwellings far away from men, The common heath, became the spoiler's prey; The rabbit had not where to make his den And labour's only cow was drove away. No matter--wrong was right and right was wrong, And freedom's bawl was sanction to the song. --Such was thy ruin, music-making elm; The right of freedom was to injure thine: As thou wert served, so would they overwhelm In freedom's name the little that is mine. And there are knaves that brawl for better laws And cant of tyranny in stronger power Who glut their vile unsatiated maws And freedom's birthright from the weak devour.

_Sport in the Meadows_