Chapter X: Introduction (8)

There is the grasshopper, my summer friend—
The minute sound of many a sunny hour
Passed on a thymy hill, when I could send
My soul in search thereof by bank and bower,
Till lured far from it by a foxglove flower,
Nodding too dangerously above the crag,
Not to excite the passion and the power
To climb the steep, and down the blossom drag;
Then the marsh-crocus joined, and yellow water-flag.

Shrill sings the drowsy wassailer in his dome,
Yon grassy wilderness, where curls the fern,
And creeps the ivy; with the wish to roam,
He spreads his sails, and bright is his sojourn,
'Mid chalices with dews in every urn;
All flying things alike delight have found—
Where’er I gaze, to what new region turn,
Ten thousand insects in the air abound,
Flitting on glancing wings that yield a summer’s sound.
JEREMIAH HOLME WIFFIN, 1792–1836.

XV.
=The Streams.=

A volume of general selections from English rural verse would be incomplete without some passage from Denham’s poem of “Cooper’s Hill”—a poem so highly lauded by past generations, and which we still read to-day with admiration. Sir John Denham is one of those poets who have met with very opposite treatment from critics of different generations; after receiving the highest commendations from Dryden, from Johnson, from Pope, from Somerville, his bays have been very severely handled in our own time. But allowing him to have been over-praised at one period, shall we for that reason refuse ourselves the pleasure he is assuredly capable of affording us? Is not “Cooper’s Hill” a fine old poem of the second class, which the nineteenth century does well to read once in a while? The celebrated lines, quoted a thousand times,

“Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull,
Strong without rage; without o’erflowing, full,”

were amusingly parodied some fifty years ago by Mr. Soame Jenyns, in his satire upon an unfledged, ignorant memberling of Parliament:

“Without experience, honesty, or sense,
Unknowing in her interests, trade, or laws,
He vainly undertakes his country’s cause;
Forth from his lips, prepared at all to rail,
Torrents of nonsense flow like bottled ale;
Though shallow, muddy; brisk, though mighty dull;
Fierce without strength; o’erflowing, though not full.”

THE STREAMS.

ARIEL’S SONG.

Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands;
Curt’sied when you have, and kind
(The wild waves whist),
Foot it featly, here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear!
Hark! hark!
The watch-dogs bark;
Hark! hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry cock-a-doodle-doo!
SHAKSPEARE.

THE THAMES.

FROM “COOPER’S HILL.”

Thames, the most lov’d of all the Ocean’s sons, By his old sire, to his embraces runs; Hasty to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity, Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold, His genuine and less guilty wealth t’ explore, Search not his bottoms, but survey his shore, O’er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring; Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, Like mothers who their infants overlay;

Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. No unexpected inundations spoil The mower’s hopes, or mock the plowman’s toil; But God-like his unwearied bounty flows; First loves to do, then loves the good he does. Nor are his blessings to his banks confin’d, But free and common, as the sea or wind; When he to boast or to disperse his stores, Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, Visits the world, and in his flying tow’rs Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours; Finds wealth where ’tis, bestows it where it wants— Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants. So that to us no thing, no place is strange, While his fair bosom is the world’s exchange. O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Strong without rage; without o’erflowing, full. Heaven her Eridanus no more shall boast, Whose fame in thine, like lesser current, lost; Thy nobler streams shall visit Jove’s abodes, To shine among the stars and bathe the gods. Here nature, whether more intent to please Us or herself, with strange varieties, (For things of wonder give no less delight To the wise Maker’s than beholders’ sight; Though these delights from sev’ral causes move, For so our children, thus our friends we love), Wisely she knew the harmony of things, As well as that of sounds, from discord springs. Such was the discord which did first disperse Form, order, beauty, through the universe; While dryness moisture, coldness heat resists, All that we have, and that we are, subsists; While the steep, horrid roughness of the wood Strives with the gentle calmness of the flood, Such huge extremes, when Nature doth unite, Wonder from thence results, from thence delight. The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear, That had the self-enamor’d youth gaz’d here, So fatally deceiv’d he had not been, While he the bottom, not his face, had seen. But his proud head the airy mountain hides

Among the clouds; his shoulders and his side A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows; While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat, The common fate of all that’s high or great. Low at his foot a spacious plain is plac’d, Between the mountain and the stream embrac’d; Which shade and shelter from the hill derives, While the kind river wealth and beauty gives; And in the mixture of all these appears Variety, which all the rest endears. SIR JOHN DENHAM, 1618–1668.

RIVER AND SONG.

It is no little recommendation of the rivers we met with here, that almost every one of them is the subject of some pleasing Scotch ditty, which the scene brings to the memory of those who are versed in the lyrics of the country. The elegant simplicity of the verse, and the soothing melody of the music, in almost all the Scotch songs, is universally acknowledged: “_Tweed-side_, and _Ettrick’s Banks_,” are not among the least pleasing.

GILPIN’S “_Highlands of Scotland_,” 1789.

ODE TO LEVEN-WATER.

On Leven’s banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o’er its bed, With white, round, polish’d pebbles spread; While, lightly pois’d, the scaly brood, In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout in speckled pride; The salmon, monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike, intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par, Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make,

By bowers of birds, and groves of pine, And hedges flower’d with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gayly green, May num’rous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o’er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient Faith, that knows no guile, And Industry embrown’d with toil, And hearts resolved, and hands prepar’d, The blessings they enjoy to guard. TOBIAS SMOLLETT, 1720–1771.

SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN.

See the rocky spring, Clear as joy, Like a sweet star gleaming! O’er the clouds, he In his youth was cradled By good spirits, 'Neath the bushes in the cliffs.

Fresh with youth From the cloud he dances Down upon the rocky pavement; Thence, exulting, Leaps to heaven.

For a while he dallies Round the summit, Through its little channels chasing Motley pebbles round and round; Quick, then, like determined leader, Hurries all his brother streamlets Off with him.

There, all round him in the vale, Flowers spring up beneath his footstep, And the meadow Wakes to feel his breath. But him holds no shady vale—

No cool blossoms, Which around his knees are clinging, And with loving eyes entreating Passing notice; on he speeds, Winding snake-like.

Social brooklets Add their waters. Now he rolls O’er the plain in silvery splendor, And the plain his splendor borrows; And the rivulets from the plain, And the brooklets from the hill-sides, All are shouting to him, “Brother, Brother, take thy brothers too— Take us to thy ancient Father, To the everlasting Ocean, Who, e’en now, with outstretched arms, Waits for us— Arms outstretched, alas! in vain, To embrace his longing ones; For the greedy sand devours us; Or the burning sun above us Sucks our life-blood; or some hillock Hems us into ponds. Ah! brother, Take thy brothers from the plain— Take thy brothers from the hill-sides With thee, to our Sire with thee!” “Come ye all, then!” Now, more proudly, On he swells; a countless race, they Bear their glorious prince aloft! On he rolls triumphantly Giving names to countries; cities Spring to being 'neath his feet.

Onward with incessant roaring, See! he passes proudly by Flaming turrets, marble mansions— Creatures of his fullness, all!

Cedar houses bears this Atlas On his giant shoulders; rustling, Flapping in the playful breezes, Thousand flags about his head are Telling of his majesty.

And so bears he all his brothers, And his treasures, and his children, To their Sire, all joyous roaring— Pressing to his mighty heart. _Translation of_ J. S. DWIGHT. JOHANN WOLFGANG V. GOETHE, 1749–1832.

THE RIVULET.

FROM THE SPANISH.

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave
The lovely vale that lies around thee!
Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,
When but a fount the morning found thee?

Born when the skies began to glow,
Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters,
No blossom bowed its stalk to show
Where stole thy still and scanty waters.

Now on thy stream the moonbeams look,
Usurping, as thou downward driftest,
Its crystal from the clearest brook,
Its rushing current from the swiftest.

Ah! what wild haste—and all to be
A river, and expire in ocean!
Each fountain’s tribute hurries thee
To that vast grave with quicker motion.

Far better ’twere to linger still
In this green vale these flowers to cherish,
And die in peace, an aged rill,
Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.
_Translation of_ W. C. BRYANT. PEDRO DE CASTRO, _17th Century_.

THE STREAM OF THE ROCK.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Unperishing youth!
Thou leapest from forth
The cleft of the rock;
No mortal eye saw
The mighty one’s cradle;
No ear ever heard
The lofty one’s lisp in the murmuring spring

How beautiful art thou,
In silvery locks!
How terrible art thou,
When the cliffs are resounding in thunder around!
Thee feareth the fir-tree;
Thou crushest the fir-tree
From its root to its crown.
The cliffs flee before thee;
The cliffs thou engraspest,
And hurlest them, scornful, like pebbles adown.

The sun weaves around thee
The beams of its splendor;
It painteth with hues of the heavenly iris,
The uprolling clouds of the silvery spray.

Why speedest thou downward,
Toward the green sea?
Is it not well by the nearer heaven?
Not well by the sounding cliff?
Not well by the o’erhanging forest of oaks?
O hasten not so
Toward the green sea!
Youth! O now thou art strong, like a god!
Free like a god!
Beneath thee is smiling the peacefullest stillness,
The tremulous swell of the slumberous sea;
Now silvered o’er by the swimming moonshine;
Now golden and red in the light of the west.

Youth, O what is this silken quiet;
What is the smile of the friendly moonlight—
The purple and gold of the evening sun,
To him whom the feeling of bondage oppresses?
Now streamest thou wild
As thy heart may prompt!
But below oft ruleth the fickle tempest,
Oft the stillness of death, in the subject sea!

O hasten not so
Toward the green sea!
Youth, O now thou art strong, like a god,
Free, like a god!
_Translation of_ W. W. STORY. FR. LEOP. STOLBERG, 1750–1819.

]

A RIVER.

FROM “SALMONIA.”

_Hal._ I think I can promise you green meadows, shady trees, the song of the nightingale, and a full, clear river.

_Poiet._ This last is, in my opinion, the most poetical object in nature. I will not fail to obey your summons. Pliny has, as well as I recollect, compared a river to human life. I have never read the passage in his works but I have been a hundred times struck with the analogy, particularly amid mountain scenery. The river, small and clear at its origin, gushes forth from rocks, falls into deep glens, and wantons and meanders through a wild and picturesque country, nourishing only the uncultivated tree or flower by its dew or spray. In this, its state of infancy and youth, it may be compared to the human mind, in which fancy and strength of imagination are predominant—it is more beautiful than useful. When the different rills or torrents join, and descend into the plain, it becomes slow and stately in its motions; it is applied to move machinery, to irrigate meadows, and to bear upon its bosom the stately barge; in this mature state it is deep, strong, useful. As it flows on toward the sea, it loses its force and its motion, and at last, as it were, becomes lost, and mingled with the mighty abyss of waters.

_Hal._ One might pursue the metaphor still further, and say that in its origin—its thundering and foam, when it carries down clay from the bank, and becomes impure—it resembles the youthful mind affected by dangerous passions. And the influence of a lake, in calming and clearing the turbid water, may be compared to the effect of reason in more mature life, when the tranquil, deep, cool, and unimpassioned mind is freed from its fever, its troubles, bubbles, noise, and foam. And, above all, the sources of a river—which may be considered as belonging to the atmosphere—and its termination in the ocean, may be regarded as imaging the divine origin of the human mind, and its being ultimately returned to, and lost in, the Infinite and Eternal Intelligence from which it originally sprung.

SIR HUMPHREY DAVY.

LIFE COMPARED TO A STREAM.

Life glides away, Lorenzo, like a brook; Forever changing, unperceiv’d the change. In the same brook none ever bathed him twice: To the same life none ever twice awoke. We call the brook the same; the same we think

Our life, though still more rapid in its flow; Nor mark the much irrevocably laps’d, And mingled with the sea; or shall we say (Retaining still the brook to bear us on) That life is like a vessel on the stream? In life embark’d, we smoothly down the tide Of time descend, but not on time intent; Amus’d, unconscious of the gliding wave; Till on a sudden we perceive a shock; We start, awake, look out; our bark is burst! EDWARD YOUNG, 1681–1755

ON THE BRONZE IMAGE OF A FROG.

FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

A traveler, when nearly exhausted by thirst, being guided by the
croaking of a frog to a spring of water, afterward vowed to the Nymphs
a bronze image of the little creature.

The servant of the Nymphs, the singer dank,
Pleased with clear fountains—the shower-loving frog,
Imaged in brass—hath a wayfaring man
Placed here, a votive gift—because it served
To quench the fever of the traveler’s thirst.
For the amphibious creature’s well-timed song,
Croaked from its dewy grot, the wandering steps
Of him who searched for water hither drew;
Not heedless of the guiding voice, he found
The longed-for draught from the sweet cooling spring.
_Translation of_ W. HAY.

LITTLE STREAMS.

Little streams are light and shadow, Flowing through the pasture meadow— Flowing by the green way-side, Through the forest dim and wild, Through the hamlet still and small, By the cottage, by the hall, By the ruin’d abbey still, Turning here and there a mill, Bearing tribute to the river— Little streams, I love you ever.

Summer music is there flowing— Flowering plants in them are growing;

Happy life is in them all, Creatures innocent and small; Little birds come down to drink, Fearless of their leafy brink; Noble trees beside them grow, Glooming them with branches low; And between the sunshine glancing In their little waves is dancing.

Little streams have flowers a many, Beautiful and fair as any; Typha strong, and green bur-reed, Willow-herb, with cotton-seed; Arrow-head, with eye of jet, And the water-violet. There the flowering rush you meet, And the plumy meadow sweet; And in places deep and stilly, Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams, their voices cheery, Sound forth welcomes to the weary; Flowing on from day to day, Without stint and without stay; Here, upon their flowery bank, In the old time pilgrims drank; Here have seen, as now, pass by, King-fisher, and dragon-fly; Those bright things that have their dwelling, Where the little streams are welling.

Down in valleys green and lowly, Murmuring not and gliding slowly, Up in mountain-hollows wild, Fretting like a peevish child; Through the hamlet, where all day In their waves the children play; Running west, or running east, Doing good to man and beast— Always giving, weary never, Little streams, I love you ever. MARY HOWITT.

FROGS.

FROM THE GREEK OF ARISTOPHANES.

_Bacchus._ * * * * * *
Hold your tongues, you tuneful creatures

_Frogs._ Cease with your profane entreaties,
All in vain forever stirring;
Silence is against our natures.
With the vernal heat reviving,
Our aquatic crew repair
From their periodic sleep,
In the dark and chilly deep,
To the cheerful upper air;
Then we frolic here and there,
All amid the meadows fair;
Shady plants of asphodel,
Are the lodges where we dwell,
Chanting in the leafy bowers,
All the livelong summer hours,
Till the sudden, gusty showers
Send us headlong, helter-skelter,
To the pool to seek for shelter;
Meager, eager, leaping, lunging,
From the sedgy wharfage plunging
To the tranquil depth below,
Then we muster all a-row,
Where, secure from toil and trouble,
With a tuneful bubble-bubble,
Our symphonious accents flow.
Brikake-kesh, koàsh, koàsh.

* * * * *

_Translation of_ J. H. FRERE.

THE RIVULETS.

Go up and mark the new-born rill,
Just trickling from its mossy bed;
Streaking the heath-clad hill
With a bright emerald thread.

Canst thou her bold career foretell,
What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend,
How far in ocean’s swell,
Her freshening billows send?

Perchance that little brook shall flow
The bulwark of some mighty realm,
Bear navies to and fro,
With monarchs at their helm.

Or canst thou guess how far away
Some sister nymph, beside her urn,
Reclining night and day,
'Mid reeds and mountain fern,

Nurses her store, with thine to blend,
When many a moor and glen are past;
Then in the wide sea end
Their spotless lives at last?

Even so the course of prayer who knows?
It springs in silence when it will—
Springs out of sight, and flows
At first a lonely rill.

But streams shall meet it by-and-by,
From thousand sympathetic hearts—
Together swelling high,
Their chant of many parts.

* * * * *

JOHN KEBLE.

LINES.

I wander’d in the woodland;
My heart beat cold and slow,
And not a tear of sorrow,
To ease its weight, would flow.

But soft a brook sang by me,
“Ah! give thy grief to me,
And I will bear it lightly,
Far, far away from thee!”

So sweet that lulling murmur,
Its music thrill’d my heart,
And, o’er the glad wave weeping,
I felt my grief depart.
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

THE WAY-SIDE SPRING.

Fair dweller by the dusty way,
Bright saint within a mossy shrine,
The tribute of a heart to-day,
Weary and worn, is thine.

The earliest blossoms of the year,
The sweet-brier and the violet,
The pious hand of spring has here
Upon thy altar set.

And not alone to thee is given
The homage of the pilgrim’s knee;
But oft the sweetest birds of heaven
Glide down and sing to thee.

Here daily from his beechen cell,
The hermit squirrel steals to drink,
And flocks which cluster to their bell,
Recline along thy brink.

And here the wagoner blocks his wheels,
To quaff the cool and generous boon;
Here from the sultry harvest fields
The reapers rest at noon.

And oft the beggar masked with tan,
In rusty garments gray with dust,
Here sits and dips his little can,
And breaks his scanty crust.

And lulled beside thy whispering stream,
Oft drops to slumber unawares,
And sees the angel of his dream
Upon celestial stairs.

Dear dweller by the dusty way,
Thou saint within a mossy shrine.
The tribute of a heart to day,
Weary and worn, is thine!
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

GULLS.

Pleasant it was to view the sea-gulls strive Against the storm, or in the ocean dive, With eager scream, or when they dropping gave Their closing wings to sail upon the wave; Then as the winds and waters raged around, And breaking billows mix’d their deafening sound, They on the rolling deep securely hung, And calmly rode the restless waves among. Nor pleas’d it less around me to behold, Far up the beach the yesty sea-foam roll’d; Or from the shore upborne, to see on high Its frothy flakes in wild confusion fly; While the salt spray, that clashing billows form, Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm. GEORGE CRABBE, 1754–1832.

THE FOUNTAIN.

Into the sunshine,
Full of light,
Leaping and flashing,
From morn till night.

Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like,
When the winds blow!

Into the starlight,
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight—
Happy by day!

Ever in motion,
Blithesome and cheery,
Still climbing heavenward,
Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers,
Still seeming best,
Upward or downward,
Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature
Nothing can tame,
Changed every moment—
Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring,
Ceaseless content,
Darkness or sunshine,
Thy element;

Glorious fountain!
Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant
Upward, like thee!
J. R. LOWELL.

XVI.
=Fairies.=

“They inhabit the interior of green hills, chiefly those of a conical form, on which they lead their dances by moonlight, impressing upon the surface the marks of circles, which sometimes appear yellow and blasted, sometimes of a deep-green hue, and within which it is dangerous to sleep or to be found after sunset.

“They are heard sedulously hammering in linns, precipices, and rocky or cavernous situations, where, like the dwarfs of the mines, mentioned by Georg. Agricola, they busy themselves in imitating the actions and the various employments of men. The brook of Beaumont, for example, which passes in its course by numerous linns and caverns, is notorious for being haunted by the Fairies; and the perforated and rounded stones, which are formed by trituration in its channel, are termed, by the vulgar, fairy-cups and dishes. A beautiful reason

is assigned by Fletcher for the fays frequenting streams and fountains. He tells us of

'A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks
The nimble-footed Fairies dance their rounds
By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes
Their stolen children, so to make them free
From dying flesh and dull mortality.’
_Faithful Shepherdess._

There is upon the top of Minchmuir, a mountain in Peebleshire, a spring called the Cheese Well, because, anciently, those who passed that way were wont to throw into it a piece of cheese as an offering to the Fairies, to whom it was consecrated.

“The usual dress of the Fairies is green, though, on the moors, they have been sometimes observed in heath brown, or in weeds dyed with the stoneran, or lichen. They often ride in invisible procession, when their presence is discovered by the shrill ringing of their bridles.”—_Minstrelsy of Scottish Border._

The seed of the fern, from its singular manner of growth, was supposed to be under the especial protection of the Queen of the Fairies. It was believed to have the quality of rendering whoever carried it about him invisible, and to be also of great use in charms and incantations. But the difficulties of gathering this mysterious seed were very great indeed; it was supposed to be only visible on St. John’s Eve, and at the very moment when the Baptist was born. How the rustic population accounted for the fact that it might, in reality, be found on the fronds both before and after that day, one can not say; but they probably held this to be a delusion of the Fairies. It is certain, at least, that they supposed the important magic seed itself only to be attainable on that one evening in the year. But even at the right hour to collect this seed was no easy task, the Fairies resorting to all kinds of devices to prevent human hands from gathering it. A certain individual who flattered himself that he had succeeded in his errand, and supposed that “he had gotten a quantity of it, and

secured it in papers, and in a box besides, when he came home, found all empty.” This fancy connected with the fern appears to have been very general. Shakspeare alludes to it:

“We have the receipt of fern-seed; we walk invisible.”
_Henry IV., Act 1, Sc. 3._

ELVES.

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves;
And ye that on the sand, with printless feet,
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green, sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe bites not; and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight-mushrooms; that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew, * * *
SHAKSPEARE’S _Tempest_.

HYNDE ETIN.

BALLAD OF THE WOODS.

May Margaret stood in her bouir door
Kaming her yellow hair;
She heard a note in Elmond wood,
And she wished that she was there.

Sae she has kiltit her petticoats,
A little abune her knee;
And she’s awa to Elmond’s wood
As fast as she can gae.

She hadna poued a nut, a nut,
Nor broke a branch but ane
When by and came a young hind chiel,
Says, “Lady! let alane.

“O why pou ye the nut, the nut,
Or why break ye the tree?
I’m forester ower a’ this wood,
Ye sould speir leave at me.”

But aye she poued the other berry,
Nae thinking o’ the skaith;

And says, “To wrong ye, Hynde Etin,
I wad be unco laith.”

But he has taen her by the yellow locks,
And tied her till a tree,
And said, “For slichting my commands,
An ill death ye sall die!”

He pou’d a tree out o’ the wood,
The biggest that was there;
And he howkit a cave many fathoms deep,
And put May Margaret there.

“Now rest ye there, ye saucy May,
My woods are free for thee;
And gif I take ye to my cell,
The better ye’ll like me.”

Nae rest, nae rest May Margaret took;
Sleep she gat never nane;
Her back lay on the cauld, cauld floor,
Her head upon the stane.

“O tak me out,” May Margaret cried,
“O tak me hame to thee;
And I sall be your bounden page,
Until the day I dee.”

He took her out the dungeon deep,
And awa wi’ him she’s gane;
But sad was the day when a king’s daughter
Gaed hame wi’ Hynde Etin.

O they hae lived in Elmond wood
For six lang years and one;
Till six pretty sons to him she bore,
And the seventh she’s brought home.

These seven bairns, sae fair and fine,
That she to him did bring;
They never were in good church door,
Nor ever gat good kirking.

And aye at nicht, wi’ harp in hand,
As they lay still asleep,
She sat hersell by their bedside,
And bitterly did weep.

Singing, “Ten lang years now have I lived
Within this cave of stane,
And never was at good kirk-door,
Nor heard the kirk-bell ring.”

But it fell once upon a day,
Hynde Etin went from home;
And for to carry his game to him,
Has taen his oldest son.

And as they through the good greenwood,
Wi’ slowsome pace did gae,
The bonnie boy’s heart grew grit and sair,
And thus he goud to say:

“A question I would ask, father,
An ye wadna angry be;”
“Say on, say on, my bonnie boy;
Ask onything at me.”

“My mither’s cheeks are often wet;
I seldom see them dry;
And I wonder aye what aileth my mither
To mourn continually?”

“Nae wonder that your mither’s cheeks
Ye seldom see them dry;
Nae wonder, nae wonder, my bonnie boy,
Though she suld brast and die!

“For she was born a king’s daughter,
Of noble birth and fame,
And now she is Hynde Etin’s wife,
Wha ne’er got Christendome.

“But we’ll shoot the laverock in the lift,
The buntlin on the tree;
And ye’ll take theme hame to your mither,
An’ see if blythe she’ll be.”

It fell upon another day,
Hynde Etin he thocht lang;
And he is to the gude greenwood,
As fast as he can gang.

Wi’ bow and arrow by his side,
He’s off, single, alane,

And left his seven bairns to stay
Wi’ their mither at home.

“I’ll tell you, mither,” quoth the auldest son,
“An’ ye wadna angry be;”
“Speak on, speak on, my bonnie boy,
Ye’se nay be quarrelled by me.”

“As we came from the hynd-hunting,
We heard fine music ring!”
“My blessings on ye, my bonnie boy!
I wish I’d been there, my lane!”

He’s ta’en his mither by the hand—
His six brothers also;
And they are on through Elmond wood
As fast as they could go.

They wistna weel where they were gaun,
Wi’ the stratlings o’ their feet;
They wistna weel where they were gaun,
Till at her father’s yett.

“I hae nae money in my pocket,
But royal rings hae three;
I’ll gie them you, my auldest son,
And ye’ll walk there for me:

“Ye’ll gie the first to the proud porter,
And he will let you in;
Ye’ll gie the next the butler boy,
And he will show you ben:

“Ye’ll gie the next to the ministrell
That plays before the king;
He’ll play success to the bonnie boy,
Cam through the wood his lane.”

He gae the first the proud porter,
And he opened and let him in.
He gae the next to the butler-boy,
And he has shown him ben.

He gae the third to the ministrell
That play’d before the king;
And he play’d success to the bonnie boy
Cam through the wood his lane.

Now when he came before the king,
He fell low on his knee;
The king he turn’d him round about,
And the saut tear blint his e’e.

“Win up, win up, my bonnie boy!
Gang frae my companie!
Ye look sae like my dear dauchter,
My heart will burst in three.”

“If I look like your dear dauchter,
A wonder it is none:
If I look like your dear dauchter,
I am her eldest son.”

“Will ye tell me, my little wee boy,
Where may my Margaret be?”
“She’s gist now standing at your yetts,
And my six brothers her wi’.”

“O where are a’ my porter boys,
That I pay meat and fee,
To open my yetts, baith wide and braid—
Let her come in to me!”

When she came in before the king,
She fell low on her knee;
“Win up, win up, my dauchter dear,
This day ye’ll dine wi’ me.”

“Ae bit I canna eat, father,
Nor ae drap can I drink,
Till I see my mither and sister dear,
For lang o’ them I think.”

When she came in before the queen,
She fell low on her knee:
“Win up, win up, my dauchter dear,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.”

“Ae bit I canna eat, mither,
Nor ae drop can I drink,
Until I see my dear sister—
For lang o’ her I think.”

And when her sister dear cam in,
She hailed her courteouslie:

“Come ben, come ben, my sister dear,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.”

“Ae bit I canna eat, sister,
Nor ae drop can I drink,
Until I see my dear husband,
For lang o’ him I think.”

“O where are all my rangers bold,
That I pay meat and fee,
To search the forest far and wide,
And bring Etin to me?”

But out then spak the little wee boy,
“Na, na, this maunna be;
Without ye grant a free pardon,
I hope ye’ll nae him see.”

“O here I grant a free pardon,
Weel sealed by my own hand,
And see make search for Hynde Etin,
As sure as e’er ye can.”

They searched the country wide and braid—
The forests far and near,
Till they found him into Elmond wood,
Tearing his yellow hair.

“Win up, win up, now, Hynde Etin—
Win up and boune wi’ me;
We’re messengers sent frae the court—
The king wants ye to see.”

“O let him tak frae me the head,
Or hang me on a tree;
For sin I’se lost my dear Margaret,
Life’s nae pleasure to me.”

“Your head will nae be touched, Etin,
Nor hanged upon a tree;
Your leddy’s in her father’s court,
And all she wants is thee.”

When in he came before the king,
He fell low on his knee;
“Win up, win up, now, Hynde Etin,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.”

But as they were at dinner set,
The boy asked a boon:
“I wis we were in the good kirk,
For to get Christendoun.

“We hae liv’d in gude greenwood
This seven years and ane;
But a’ this time, sin e’er I mind,
Were ne’er a church within.”

“Your asking’s nae sae great, my boy,
But granted it sall be;
This day to gude church ye sall gang,
And your mither sall gang ye wi’.”

When unto the gude church she cam,
She at the door did stan’;
She was sae sair sunk down wi’ shame,
She waldna come far’r ben,

Then out it speaks the parish priest—
A good auld man was he:
“Come ben, come ben, my lily flouir,
Present your babes to me.”

But they staid lang in royal court,
Wi’ mirth and high renown;
And when her father was deceased,
She was heir o’ his crown.
_Anonymous._

THE FAIRY QUEEN.

Come follow me, follow me,
You fairy elves that be—
Which circle on the greene,
Come follow Mab your Queene.
Hand in hand let’s dance around,
For this place is fairy ground.

When mortals are at rest,
And snoring in their nest,
Unheard and unespy’d
Through key-holes we do glide;
Over tables, stools, and shelves,
We trip it with our fairy elves.

And if the house be foul,
With platter, dish, or bowl,
Up stairs we nimbly creep,
And find the sluts asleep:
There we pinch their armes and thighes;
None escapes, nor none espies

But if the house be swept,
And from uncleanness kept,
We praise the household maid,
And duly she is paid;
For we use before we goe,
To drop a tester in her shoe.

Upon a mushroom’s head
Our table-cloth we spread;
A grain of rye or wheat
Is manchet which we eat;
Pearly drops of dew we drink
In acorn cups fill’d to the brink.

The brains of nightingales,
With unctuous fat of snails,
Between two cockles stew’d,
Is meat that’s easily chew’d;
Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice,
Do make a dish that’s wonderous nice.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly
Serve for our minstrelsie;
Grace said, we dance awhile,
And so the time beguile:
And if the moone doth hide her head,
The gloe-worm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewie grasse
So nimbly we do passe,
The young and tender stalk
Ne’er bends when we do walk;
Yet in the morning may be seene
Where we the night before have beene.
_Anonymous, about the year 1600._

THE MERRY PRANKS OF ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW.

From Oberon, in fairy land,
The king of ghosts and shadowes there,
Mad Robin, I, at his command,
Am sent to viewe the night-sports here.
What revell rout
Is kept about
In every corner where I go,
I will o’ersee
And merrie be,
And make good sport with ho, ho, ho!

More swift than lightning can I flye
About the aery welkin soone,
And in a minute’s space descrye
Each thing that’s done belowe the moone.
There’s not a hag
Or ghost shall wag,
Or cry 'ware goblins! where I go,
But Robin, I,
Their feates will spy,
And send them home with ho, ho, ho!

Whene’er such wanderers I meete,
As from their night-sports they trudge home,
With counterfeiting voice I greete,
And call them on with me to roame.
Thro’ woods, thro’ lakes,
Thro’ bogs, thro’ brakes;
Or else, unseene, with them I go,
All in the nicke,
To play some tricke,
And frolick it with ho, ho, ho!

Sometimes I meete them like a man;
Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound,
And to a horse I turn me can,
To trip and trot about them round,
But, if to ride,
My backe they stride,
More swift than wind away I goe,
O’er hedge and lands,
Thro’ pools and ponds,
I whirry, laughing ho, ho, ho!

When lads and lasses merry be,
With possets, and with junkets fine;
Unseene of all the company,
I eat their cakes and sip their wine;
And to make sport
I fume and snort,
And out the candles I do blow:
The maids I kiss,
They shrieke, Who’s this?
I answer nought but ho, ho, ho!

Yet now and then, the maids to please,
At midnight I card up their wooll;
And while they sleepe and take their ease,
With wheel, to threads their flax I pull.
I grind at mill,
Their malt up still;
I dress their hemp, I spin their tow.
If any wake,
And would me take,
I wend me laughing ho, ho, ho!

When house or hearth doth sluttish lye,
I pinch the maidens black and blue,
The bedd-clothes from the bedd pull I,
And in their ear I bawl too-whoo!
’Twixt sleepe and wake
I do them take,
And on the clay-cold floor them throw,
If out they cry,
Then forth I fly,
And loudly laugh out ho, ho, ho!

When any need to borrow ought,
We lend them what they do require,
And for the use demand we nought,
Our owne is all we do desire.
If to repay,
They do delay,
Abroad amongst them then I go,
And night by night,
I them affright,
With pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho!

When lazie queans have nought to do,
But study how to cog and lye,

To make debate and mischief too,
’Twixt one another secretly
I marke their gloze,
And it disclose,
To them whom they have wronged so.
When I have done,
I get me gone
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho!

When men do traps and engines set
In loope holes, where the vermine creepe,
Who from their foldes and houses get
Their duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe;
I spy the gin,
And enter in,
And seeme a vermin taken so;
But when they there
Approach me neare,
I leap out laughing ho, ho, ho!

By wells and rills, in meadowes green,
We nightly dance our hey-day guise;
And to our fairye kinge and queene
We chaunt our moon-lighte minstrelsies.
When larkes gin singe,
Away we flinge;
And babes new-born steale as we go,
And shoes in bed
We leave instead,
And wend us laughing ho, ho, ho!

From hag-bred Merlin’s time have I
Thus nightly revell’d to and fro:
And for my prankes, men call me by
The name of Robin Good-Fellow.
Friends, ghosts, and sprites
Who haunt the nightes,
The hags and goblins do me know,
And beldames old
My feates have told,
So _vale_, _vale_, ho, ho, ho!
_Anonymous—attributed to_ BEN JONSON, _about 1600_.

SLAVIC.

AN OLD BALLAD.

The maiden went for water
To the well o’er the meadow away;
She there could draw no water,
So thick the frost it lay.

The mother she grew angry,
She had it long to bemoan;
“O daughter mine, O daughter mine,
I would thou wert a stone!”

The maiden’s water-pitcher
Grew marble instantly,
And she herself, the maiden,
Became a maple tree.

There came one day two lads,
Two minstrels young they were;
“We’ve traveled far, my brother,
Such a maple we saw nowhere.

“Come let us cut a fiddle,
One fiddle for me and you,
And from the same fine maple,
For each one, fiddlesticks two.”

They cut into the maple—
Then splashed the blood so red;
The lads fell to the ground,
So sore were they afraid.

Then spake from within the maiden:
“Wherefore afraid are you?
Cut out of me one fiddle,
And for each one fiddlesticks two.

“Then go and play right sadly,
To my mother’s door begone,
And sing: Here is thy daughter
Whom thou didst curse to stone.”

The lads they went, and sadly
Their song to play began;
The mother when she heard
Right to the window ran.

“O lads, dear lads, be silent,
Do not my pain increase,
For since I’ve lost my daughter,
My pain doth never cease!”
_Translated by_ MRS. ROBINSON.

COTTAGE FAIRY.

“Sisters! I have seen this night A hundred cottage fires burn bright, And a thousand happy faces shining In the burning blaze, and the gleam declining. I care, not I, for the stars above, The lights on earth are the lights I love; Let Venus blur the evening air, Uprise at morn Prince Lucifer; But those little tiny stars be mine That through the softened copse-wood shine. With beauty crown the pastoral hill, And glimmer o’er the sylvan rill, Where stands the peasant’s ivied nest, And the huge mill-wheel is at rest. From out the honeysuckle’s bloom I peep’d into that laughing room, Then, like a hail-drop on the pane, Pattering, I still’d the din again, While every startled eye looked up, And, half-raised to her lips the cup, The rosy maiden’s look met mine! But I vail’d mine eyes with the silken twine Of the small wild roses, clustering thickly; Then to her seat returning quickly, She 'gan to talk with bashful glee Of fairies 'neath the greenwood tree Dancing by moonlight, and she blest Gently our silent land of rest. The infants playing on the floor, At these wild words their sports gave o’er, And ask’d where liv’d the Cottage Fairy; The maid replied, 'She loves to tarry Ofttimes beside our very hearth, And joins in little children’s mirth,

When they are gladly innocent; And sometimes beneath the leafy tent, That murmurs round our cottage door, Our overshadowing sycamore, We see her dancing in a ring, And hear the blessed creature sing— A creature full of gentleness, Rejoicing in our happiness.’ Then pluck’d I a wreath with many a gem Burning—a flowery diadem— And through the wicket, with a glide I slipped, and sat me down beside The youngest of those infants fair, And wreath’d the blossoms in her hair. 'Who placed these flowers on William’s head?’ The little wondering sister said, 'A wreath not half so bright and gay, Crown’d me, upon the morn of May, Queen of that sunny holiday.’ The tiny monarch laughed aloud With pride among the loving crowd, And, with my shrillest voice, I lent A chorus to their merriment; Then with such murmur as a bee Makes, from a flower-cup suddenly Borne off into the silent sky, I skimmed away, and with delight Sailed down the calm stream of the night, Till gently as a flake of snow, Once more I dropp’d on earth below—

* * * * *

JOHN WILSON.

FAIRIES IN THE HIGHLANDS.

FROM THE “CULPRIT FAY.”

The moon looks down on old Cro’nest, She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the wave below; His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut bough and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches dark, Glimmers and dies the firefly’s spark—

Like starry twinkles that momently break Through the rifts of the gathering tempest’s rack.

The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnish’d length of wavy beam, In an eel-like, spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid, And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katydid; And the plaint of the wailing whippowil, Who moans unseen and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and woe, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow.

’Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell: The wood-tick has kept the minutes well, She has counted them all with click and stroke, Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak, And he has awaken’d the sentry elve, Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the fays to their revelry. Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell (’Twas made of the white snail’s pearly shell)— “Midnight comes, and all is well! Hither, hither, wing your way! ’Tis the dawn of the fairy day.”

They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullein’s velvet screen; Some on the backs of beetles fly, From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swung in their cobweb-hammocks high, And rock’d about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest— They had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillow’d on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumber’d there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering ising-stars inlaid; And some had open’d the four-o’clock,

And stole within its purple shade,
And now they throng the moonlight glade.
Above—below—on every side,
Their little minim forms array’d
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, 1795–1820.

]

XVII.
=Medley.=

OF BEAUTY.

* * * * *

There is beauty in the rolling clouds, and placid shingle beach, In feathery snows and whistling winds, and dim electric skies; There is beauty in the rounded woods dank with heavy foliage, In laughing fields and dented hills, the valley and its lake; There is beauty in the gullies, beauty on the cliffs, beauty in sun and shade, In rocks and rivers, seas and plains—the earth is drowned in beauty!

Beauty coileth with the water-snake, and is cradled in the shrew-mouse’s
nest;
She flitteth out with evening bats, and the soft mole hid her in his
tunnel;
The limpet is encamped upon the shore, and beauty not a stranger to his
tent;
The silvery dace and golden carp thread the rushes with her.
She saileth into clouds with an eagle, she fluttereth into tulips with a
humming-bird;
The pasturing kine are of her company, and she prowleth with the leopard
in his jungle.
MARTIN F. TUPPER.

FRAGMENT.

Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene— Rich is that varied view with woods around, Seen from the seat, within the shrubb’ry bound; Where shines the distant lake, and where appear, From ruins bolting, unmolested deer; Lively—the village-green, the inn, the place, Where the good widow schools her infant race. Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw, And village-pleasures unreproved by law. Then how serene, when in your favorite room, Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom; And when from upland paddock you look down. And just perceive the smoke which hides the town; When weary peasants at the close of day Walk to their cots, and part upon the way; When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook, And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook. GEO. CRABBE, 1754–1832.

THE MEMORY OF A WALK.

I have taken, since you went away, many of the walks which we have taken together; and none of them, I believe, without thoughts of you. I have, though not a good memory in general, yet a good local memory, and can recollect, by the help of a tree or a stile, what you said on that particular spot. For this reason I purpose, when the summer is come, to walk with a book in my pocket; what I read at my fireside I forget, but what I read under a hedge or at the side of a pond, that pond and that hedge will always bring to remembrance; and this is a sort of _memoria technica_ which I would recommend to you, if I did not know that you have no occasion for it.

W. COWPER.—_Letter to S. Rose, Esq., Jan. 19, 1789._

A BOWER.

In the pleasant orchard closes,
“God bless all our gains,” say we;
But, “May God bless all our losses,”
Better suits with our degree.
Listen, gentle—ay, and simple!—Listen, children, on the kine!

Green the land is where my daily
Steps in jocund childhood played—
Dimpled close with hill and valley,
Dappled very close with shade;
Summer-snow of apple-blossoms, running up from glade to glade.

There is one hill I see nearer
In my vision of the rest;
And a little wood seems clearer,
As it climbeth from the west,
Sideway from the tree-locked valley to the airy upland crest.

Small the wood is, green with hazels,
And, completing the ascent,
Where the wind blows and sun dazzles,
Thrills, in leafy tremblement,
Like a heart that after climbing beateth quickly through content.

Not a step the wood advances
O’er the open hill-top’s bound;
There in green arrest the branches
See their image on the ground:
You may walk beneath them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound.

For you hearken on your right hand
How the birds do leap and call
In the greenwood, out of sight and
Out of reach and fear of all,
And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal.

On your left the sheep are cropping
The slant grass and daisies pale;
And fine apple-trees stand dropping
Separate shadows toward the vale,
Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!”

Far out, kindled by each other,
Shining hills on hills arise;
Close as brother leans to brother,
When they press beneath the eyes
Of some father praying blessings from the gifts of paradise.

While beyond, above them mounted,
And above their woods also,
Malvern hills, for mountains counted
Not unduly, loom a row—
Keepers of Piers Plowman’s visions, through the sunshine and the snow.

Yet in childhood little prized I
That fair walk and far survey;
’Twas a straight walk, unadvised by
The least mischief worth a nay—
Up and down—as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!

But the wood, all close and clenching,
Bough in bough, and root in root—
No more sky, for over-branching,
At your head than at your foot—
Oh! the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute.

Few and broken paths showed through it
Where the sheep had tried to run—
Forced with snowy wool to strew it
Round the thickets, when anon
They with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back unto the sun.

But my childish heart beat stronger
Than those thickets dared to grow:
I could pierce them! I could longer
Travel on, methought, than so!
Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would
go.

And the poets wander, said I,
Over places all as rude!
Bold Rinaldo’s lovely lady
Sat to meet him in a wood—
Rosalinda, like a fountain, laughed out pure with solitude.

And if Chaucer had not traveled
Through a forest by a well,
He had never dream’d nor marveled
At those ladies fair and fell
Who lived smiling, without loving, in their island citadel.

Thus I thought of the old singers,
And took courage from their song,
Till my little struggling fingers
Tore asunder gyve and thong
Of the lichens which entrapped me, and the barrier branches strong.

On a day, such pastime keeping,
With a fawn’s heart debonnaire,
Under-crawling, over-leaping
Thorns that prick and boughs that bear,
I stood suddenly astonished—I was gladdened unaware!

From the place I stood in floated
Back the covert dim and close,
And the open ground was coated
Carpet-smooth with grass and moss,
And the blue-bell’s purple presence signed it worthily across.

Here a linden-tree stood brightening
All adown its silver rind;
For as some trees draw the lightning,
So this tree, unto my mind,
Drew to earth the blessed sunshine, from the sky where it was shrined.

Tall the linden-tree, and near it
An old hawthorn also grew;
And wood-ivy, like a spirit,
Hovered dimly round the two,
Shaping thence that bower of beauty, which I sing of thus to you.

’Twas a bower for garden fitter
Than for any woodland wide!
Though a fresh and dewy glitter
Struck it through, from side to side,
Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied.

Oh, a lady might have come there,
Hooded fairly, like her hawk,
With a book or lute in summer,
And a hope of sweeter talk—
Listening less to her own music, than for footsteps on the walk.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

]

MIST OF THE MOUNTAIN-TOP.

Like mist on a mountain-top broken and gray, The dream of my early day fleeted away; Now the evening of life with its shadows steal on, And memory reposes on years that are gone!