Chapter XI: Introduction (9)

Wild youth with strange fruitage of errors and tears— A midday of bliss and a midnight of fears— Though checker’d and sad, and mistaken you’ve been, Still love I to muse on the hours we have seen!

With those long-vanished hours fair visions are flown, And the soul of the minstrel sinks pensive and lone; In vain would I ask of the future to bring The verdure that gladden’d my life in its spring!

I think of the glen where the hazel-nut grew— The pine-crowned hill where the heather-bells blew— The trout-burn which soothed with its murmuring sweet, The wild flowers that gleamed on the red-deer’s retreat!

I look for the mates full of ardor and truth, Whose joys, like my own, were the sunbeams of youth— They passed ere the morning of hope knew its close— They left me to sleep where our fathers repose!

Where is now the wide hearth with the big fagot’s blaze, Where circled the legend and song of old days? The legend’s forgotten, the hearth is grown cold, The home of my childhood to strangers is sold!

Like a pilgrim who speeds on a perilous way, I pause, ere I part, oft again to survey Those scenes ever dear to the friends I deplore, Whose feast of young smiles I may never share more! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 1798–1835.

EMBLEM.

A FLOWER GARDEN WITH SUNSHINE AND RAIN.

When all the year our fields are fresh and green,
And while sweet flowers and sunshine every day,
As oft as need requireth, come between
The heav’ns and earth, they heedless pass away.
The fullness and continuance of a blessing
Do make us to be senseless of the good;
And if it sometime fly not our possessing,
The sweetness of it is not understood.
Had we no winter, summer would be thought
Not half so pleasing; and if tempests were not,
Such comforts could not by a calm be brought;
For things, save by their opposites, appear not.
Both health and wealth are tasteless unto some;
And so is ease, and every other pleasure,
Till poor, or rich, or grieved they become;
And then they relish these in ampler measure.
God, therefore, full as kind as he is wise,
So tempereth all the favors he will do us,
That we his bounties may the better prize,
And make his chastisements less bitter to us.

One while a scorching indignation burns
The flowers and blossoms of our hopes away,
Which into scarcity our plenty turns,
And changeth unmown grass to parched hay;
Anon his fruitful showers and pleasing dews,
Commixt with cheerful rays, he sendeth down;
And then the barren earth her crop renews,
Which with rich harvests hills and valleys crown:
For, as to relish joys he sorrow sends,
So comfort on temptation still attends.
GEORGE WITHER, 1588–1667.

SONG.

Composed by Robert Duke of Normandy, when a prisoner in Cardiff
Castle, and addressed to an old oak, growing in an ancient camp within
view from the tower in which he was confined. Imitated by Bishop
Heber.

Oak, that stately and alone
On the war-worn mound hast grown,
The blood of man thy sapling fed,
And dyed thy tender root in red;
Woe to the feast where foes combine,
Woe to the strife of words and wine!

Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year,
'Mid whisp’ring rye-grass tall and sere,
The coarse rank herb, which seems to show
That bones unbless’d are laid below;
Woe to the sword that hates its sheath,
Woe to th’ unholy trade of death!

Oak, from the mountain’s airy brow,
Thou view’st the subject woods below,
And merchants hail the well-known tree,
Returning o’er the Severn sea.
Woe, woe to him whose birth is high,
For peril waits on royalty!

Now storms have bent thee to the ground,
And envious ivy clips thee round;
And shepherd hinds in wanton play
Have stripped thy needful bark away;
Woe to the man whose foes are strong,
Thrice woe to him who lives too long!
REGINALD HEBER. ROBERT OF NORMANDY, _about 1107_.

TO A MOUNTAIN-DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW, APRIL, 1786.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r, Thou’s met met me in an evil hour, For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonnie gem!

Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewie weet, Wi’ speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe to greet The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth, Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm— Scarce rear’d above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield, High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield, O’ clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.

There in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade! By love’s simplicity betray’d, And guileless breast; Till she, like thee, all soil’d is laid Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d, Unskillful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er.

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, By human pride or cunning driv’n, To mis’ry’s brink; Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n, He ruin’d sink.

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the daisy’s fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern ruin’s plowshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till, crush’d beneath the furious weight, Shall be thy doom! ROBERT BURNS, 1750–1796.

MOSSGIEL.

“There,” said a stripling, pointing with much pride Toward a low roof, with green trees half conceal’d, “Is Mossgiel farm; and that’s the very field Where Burns plow’d up the daisy!” Far and wide A plain below stretch’d seaward; while, descried, Above sea-clouds, the peaks of Arran rose; And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea, and air was vivified. Beneath the random field of clod or stone, Myriads of daisies here shone forth in flower, Near the lark’s nest, and in their natural hour Have pass’d away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling plowshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770–1850.

THE FOREST-LEAVES IN AUTUMN.

FROM “THE CHRISTIAN YEAR.”

Red o’er the forest peers the setting sun;
The line of yellow light dies fast away
That crown’d the eastern copse; and chill and dun
Falls on the moor the brief November day.

Now the tir’d hunter winds a parting note,
And Echo bids good-night from every glade;
Yet wait awhile, and on the calm leaves float
Each to his rest beneath the parent shade.

How like decaying life they seem to glide!
And yet no second spring have they in store;
But where they fall forgotten, to abide
Is all their portion, and they ask no more.

Soon o’er their heads blithe April airs shall sing;
A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold;
The green buds glisten in the dews of spring,
And all be vernal rapture as of old.

Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie,
In all the world of busy life around
No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky,
No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.

Man’s portion is to die and rise again—
Yet he complains; while these unmurmuring part
With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain
As his when Eden held his virgin heart.

* * * * *

JOHN KEBLE.

BOHEMIAN

ANCIENT SONG.

O ye forests, dark-green forests,
Miletinish forests!
Why in summer, and in winter,
Are ye green and blooming?
O! I would not weep and cry,
Nor torment my heart.

But now tell me, good folk, tell me,
How should not I cry?
Ah! where is my dear father?
Woe! he lies deep buried.
Where my mother? O good mother!
O’er her grows the grass!
Brothers have I not, nor sisters,
And my lad is gone!
_Translated by_ TALVI.

LANDSCAPE AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS.

I wake, I rise; from end to end,
Of all the landscape underneath,
I find no place that doth not breathe
Some gracious memory of my friend;

No gray old grange, or lonely fold,
Or low morass and whispering reed,
Or simple stile from mead to mead,
Or sheep-walk up the windy wold;

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw,
That hears the latest linnet trill,
Nor quarry trench’d along the hill,
And haunted by the wrangling daw;

Nor rivulet trickling from the rock,
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves
From left to right through meadowy curves,
That feed the mothers of the flock;

But each has pleased a kindred eye,
And each reflects a kindlier day;
And leaving these, to pass away
I think once more he seems to die.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine is, too, the last green field
That Lucy’s eyes surveyed!
W. WORDSWORTH, 1770–1850.

XVIII.
=THE CALENDAR.=

THE OPENING YEAR.

JANUARY.

Orphan hours, the year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry hours smile instead, For the year is but asleep. See! it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, So white winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the dead-cold year to-day; Solemn hours! wail aloud For your mother in her shroud.

As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,

So the breath of these rude days Rocks the year: be calm and mild, Trembling hours; she will arise With new love within her eyes.

January gray is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier— March, with grief, doth howl and rave; And April weeps—but, O ye hours! Follow with May’s fairest flowers. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1792–1822.

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM

ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY.

Sweet flower! that peeping from thy russet stem, Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month Hath borrowed Zephyr’s voice, and gazed on thee With blue, voluptuous eye); alas, poor flower! These are but flatteries of the faithless year, Perchance escaped its unknown polar cave. E’en now the keen north-east is on its way, Flower thou must perish! Shall I liken thee To some sweet girl of too, too rapid growth? SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE, 1770–1849.

FEBRUARY.

Dip down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new year, delaying long,
Thou dost expectant nature wrong,
Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer noons?

Bring orchis—bring the fox-glove spire,
The little speedwell’s darling blue,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew,
Laburnums dropping wells of fire.

O thou new year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat of song.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

]

MARCH.

The stormy March is come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee!
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again
The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentler train,
And wear’st the gentle name of Spring.

And in thy reign of blast and storm
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills,
And the full springs, from frost set free,
That, brightly leaping down the hills,
Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year’s departing beauty hides
Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
But in thy sternest form abides
A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
Seems of a brighter world than ours.
W. C. BRYANT.

APRIL.

All day the low hung clouds have dropped
Their garnered fullness down;
All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped
Hill, valley, grove, and town.

There has not been a sound to-day
To break the calm of nature;
Nor motion, I might almost say,
Of life or living creature;

Of waving bough, or warbling bird,
Or cattle faintly lowing—
I could have half believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing.

For leafy thickness is not yet
Earth’s naked breast to screen,
Though every dripping branch is set
With shoots of tender green.

Sure, since I looked at early morn,
These honeysuckle buds
Have swelled to double growth; that thorn
Hath put forth larger studs;

That lilac’s cleaving cones have burst,
The milk-white flowers revealing;
Even now upon my senses first,
Methinks their sweets are stealing

The very earth, the steaming air,
Is all with fragrance rife;
And grace and beauty everywhere
Are flushing into life.

Down, down they come—those fruitful stores!
Those earth-rejoicing drops!
A momentary deluge pours,
Then thins, decreases, stops.

And ere the dimples on the stream,
Have circled out of sight,
Lo! from the west a parting gleam
Breaks forth of amber light.

But yet, behold! abrupt and loud,
Comes down the glittering rain;
The farewell of a passing cloud,
The fringes of her train.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.

APRIL.

FROM THE FRENCH.

April, season blest and dear,
Hope of the reviving year;
Promise of bright fruits that lie
In their downy canopy,
Till the nipping winds are past,
And their vails aside are cast!
April, who delight’st to spread
O’er the emerald-laughing mead
Flowers of fresh and brilliant dyes,
Rich in wild embroideries!
April, who each zephyr’s sigh
Dost with perfumed breath supply,
When they through the forest rove,
Spreading wily nets of love,
That, for lovely Flora made,
May detain her in the shade!
April, by thy hand caressed,
Nature, from her genial breast,
Loves her richest gifts to shower,
And awakes her magic power,
Till all earth and air are rife
With delight, and hope, and life!

April, nymph forever fair,
On my mistress’ sunny hair,
Scattering wreaths of odors sweet,
For her snowy bosom meet!
April, full of smiles and grace,
Drawn from Venus’ dwelling-place;
Thou, from earth’s enamel’d plain,
Yield’st the gods their breath again.
’Tis thy courteous hand doth bring
Back the messenger of spring;
And his tedious exile o’er,
Hail’st the swallow’s wing once more.

The eglantine, the hawthorn bright,
The thyme and pink, and jasmine white,
Don their purest robes to be
Guests, fair April, worthy thee.

The nightingale—sweet hidden sound!
'Midst the clustering boughs around,
Charms to silence notes that wake
Soft discourse from bush and brake,
And bids every listening thing
Pause awhile to hear her sing.

’Tis to thy return we owe
Love’s fond sighs, that learn to glow
After winter’s chilling reign
Long has bound them in her chain.
’Tis thy smile to being warms
All the busy, shining swarms,
Which, on perfumed pillage bent,
Fly from flower to flower intent,
Till they load their golden thighs
With the treasure each supplies.

May may boast her ripened hues,
Richer fruits, and flowers, and dews,
And those glowing charms that well
All the happy world can tell;
But, sweet April, thou shalt be
Still a chosen month for me.

* * * * *
_Translation of_ MISS COSTELLO. REMI BELLEAU, 1528–1577.

ODE TO FIRST OF APRIL.

* * * * *

Mindful of disaster past, And shrinking at the northern blast, The sleety storm returning still, The morning hoar, and evening chill, Reluctant comes the timid spring. Scarce a bee, with airy ring, Murmurs the blossom’d boughs around, That clothe the garden’s southern bound; Scarce a sickly, straggling flower Decks the rough castle’s rifted tower;

Scarce the hardy primrose peeps From the dark dell’s entangled steeps; O’er the fields of waving broom Slowly shoots the golden bloom; And, but by fits, the furze-clad dale Tinctures the transitory gale; While from the shrubbery’s naked maze, Where the vegetable blaze Of Flora’s brightest 'broidery shone, Every checker’d charm is flown; Save that the lilac hangs to view Its bursting gems in clusters blue. Scant along the ridgy land The beans their new-born ranks expand; The fresh-turn’d soil, with tender blades, Thinly the sprouting barley shades: Fringing the forest’s devious edge, Half-rob’d appears the hawthorn hedge; Or to the distant eye displays, Weakly green its budding sprays. The swallow, for a moment seen, Skims in haste the village green; From the gray moor, on feeble wing, The screaming plovers idly spring; The butterfly, gay-painted, soon Explores awhile the tepid noon, And fondly trusts its tender dyes To fickle suns and flattering skies. Fraught with a transient, frozen shower, If a cloud should haply lower, Sailing o’er the landscape dark, Mute on a sudden is the lark; But when gleams the sun again O’er the pearl-besprinkled plain, And from behind his watery vail, Looks through the thin descending hail; She mounts, and, lessening to the sight, Salutes the blithe return of light; And high her tuneful track pursues, 'Mid the dim rainbow’s scattered hues. Where, in venerable rows, Widely-waving oaks disclose The moat of yonder antique hall, Swarm the rooks with clamorous call; And to the toils of nature true,

Wreath their capacious nests anew. Musing through the lawny park, The lonely poet loves to mark How various greens in faint degrees Tinge the tall groups of various trees; While, careless of the changing year, The pine cerulean, never sere, Towers distinguish’d from the rest, And proudly vaunts her winter vest. Within some whispering osier isle, Where Glynn’s low banks neglected smile, And each trim meadow still retains The wintry torrent’s oozy stains, Beneath a willow, long forsook, The fisher seeks his 'custom’d nook; And bursting through the crackling sedge, That crowns the current’s cavern’d edge, He startles from the bordering wood The bashful wild-duck’s early brood. O’er the broad downs, a novel race, Frisk the lambs with faltering pace, And with eager bleatings fill The foss that skirts the beacon’d hill. His free-born vigor, yet unbroke, To lordly man’s usurping yoke, The bounding colt forgets to play, Basking beneath the noontide ray, And stretch’d among the daisies pied, Of a green dingle’s sloping side; While far beneath, where Nature spreads Her boundless length of level meads, In loose luxuriance taught to stray, A thousand tumbling rills inlay With silver veins the vale, or pass Redundant through the sparkling grass.

* * * * *

THOMAS WARTON, 1728–1790.

APRIL.

Lessons sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
May I call ye sense or learning,
Instinct pure, or heav’n-taught heart?

Be your title what it may, Sweet and lengthening April day, While with you the soul is free, Ranging wild o’er hill and lea;

Soft as Memnon’s harp at morning, To the inward ear devout, Touch’d by light with heavenly warning, Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice, Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary, Winding shore or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory, Teaches truth to wandering men. Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die; Homely scenes and simple views, Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

See the soft green willow springing Where the waters gently pass, Every way her free arms flinging O’er the moss and reedy grass. Long ere winter blasts are fled, See her tipp’d with vernal red, And her kindly flower display’d Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her, Patiently she droops awhile, But when showers and breezes hail her, Wears again her willing smile. Thus I learn Contentment’s power From the slighted willow bower, Ready to give thanks and live, On the least that Heaven may give.

If, the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stormy vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving
For the shades I leave behind,

By the dusty wayside dear, Nightingales with joyous cheer Sing, my sadness to reprove, Gladlier than in cultur’d grove.

Where the thickest boughs are twining Of the greenest, darkest tree, There they plunge, the light declining— All may hear, but none may see. Fearless of the passing hoof, Hardly will they fleet aloof; So they live in modest ways, Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. JOHN KEBLE.

MAY.

Oh, the merry May has pleasant hours,
And dreamingly they glide,
As if they floated like the leaves
Upon a silver tide.
The trees are full of crimson buds,
And the woods are full of birds,
And the waters flow to music,
Like a tune with pleasant words.

The verdure of the meadow-land
Is creeping to the hills;
The sweet, blue-bosom’d violets
Are blowing by the rills;
The lilac has a load of balm
For every wind that stirs,
And the larch stands green and beautiful,
Amid the somber firs.

There’s perfume upon every wind—
Music in every tree—
Dews for the moisture-loving flowers—
Sweets for the sucking bee;
The sick come forth for the healing South;
The young are gathering flowers;
And life is a tale of poetry,
That is told by golden hours.

If ’tis not a true philosophy,
That the spirit, when set free,
Still lingers about its olden home,
In the flower and in the tree,
It is very strange that our pulses thrill
At the sight of a voiceless thing,
And our hearts yearn so with tenderness
In the beautiful time of spring.
N. P. WILLIS.

JUNE.

SUMMER.

The summer-time has come again,
With all its light and mirth,
And June leads on the laughing hours
To bless the weary earth.

The sunshine lies along the street,
So dim and cold before,
And in the open window creeps,
And slumbers on the floor.

The country was so fresh and fine,
And beautiful in May,
It must be more than beautiful—
A Paradise to-day!

If I were only there again,
I’d seek the lanes apart,
And shout aloud in mighty words,
To ease my happy heart.
R. H. STODDARD.

JULY.

Loud is the summer’s busy song, The smallest breeze can find a tongue, While insects of each tiny size Grow teasing with their melodies, Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around, and day dies still as death. The busy noise of man and brute Is on a sudden lost and mute;

Even the brook that leaps along, Seems weary of its bubbling song, And so soft its waters creep, Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep; The cricket on its bank is dumb, The very flies forget to hum; And, save the wagon rocking round, The landscape sleeps without a sound. The breeze is stopp’d, the lazy bough Hath not a leaf that danceth now; The taller grass upon the hill, And spider’s threads are standing still; The feathers dropp’d from moorhen’s wing, Which to the water’s surface cling, Are steadfast, and as heavy seem, As stones beneath them in the stream; Hawkweed and groundsel’s fanny downs Unruffled keep their seedy crowns; And in the oven-heated air Not one light thing is floating there, Save that to the earnest eye The restless heat seems twittering by. Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, And flowers e’en within the shade, Until the sun slopes in the west Like weary traveler, glad to rest On pillow’d clouds of many hues; Then Nature’s voice its joy renews, And checkered field and grassy plain, Hum with their summer songs again, A requiem to the day’s decline, Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine, As welcome to day’s feeble powers, As falling dews to thirsty flowers. JOHN CLARE.

AUGUST.

SONNET.

A power is on the earth and in the air, From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam, and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth—her thousand plants

Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze
The herd beside the shaded fountain pants;
For life is driven from all the landscape brown;
The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den,
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men
Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town,
As if the Day of Fire had dawned and sent
Its deadly breath into the firmament.
W. C. BRYANT.

AUGUST.

An August day! a dreamy haze
Films air, and mingles with the skies,
Sweetly the rich, dark sunshine plays,
Bronzing each object where it lies.
Outlines are melted in the gauze
That Nature vails; the fitful breeze
From the thick pine low murmuring draws,
Then dies in flutterings midst the trees.
The bee is slumbering in the thistle,
And, now and then, a broken whistle,
A tread—a hum—a tap—is heard
Through the dry leaves, in grass and bush,
As insect, animal, and bird
Rouse brief from their lethargic hush.
Then e’en these pleasant sounds would cease,
And a dread stillness all things lock:
The aspen seem like sculptured rock,
And not a tassel thread be shaken,
The monarch pine’s deep trance to waken,
And Nature settle prone in drowsy peace.
The misty blue—the distant masses,
The air in woven purple glimmering
The shiver transiently that passes
Over the leaves, as though each tree
Gave one brief sigh—the slumberous shimmering
Of the red light—invested seem
With some sweet charm, that soft, serene,
Mellows the gold—the blue—the green
Into mild temper’d harmony,
And melts the sounds that intervene,
As scarce to break the quiet, till we deem
Nature herself transform’d to Fancy’s dream.
ALFRED STREET.

SEPTEMBER.

The meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attemper’d beams, Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth; Beneath its yellow luster groves and woods, Checker’d by one night’s frost with various hues, While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, The yellow, red, or purple of the trees That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick, Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side Of some high mount reflected far below, With its bright colors, intermixed with spots Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad To wander in the open fields, and hear, E’en at this hour, the noonday hardly past, The lulling insects of the summer’s night; To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, A lonely bee, long roving here and there To find a single flower, but all in vain; Then rising quick, and with a louder hum, In widening circles round and round his head, Straight by the listener flying clear away, As if to bid the fields a last adieu; To hear, within the woodland’s sunny side, Late full of music, nothing, save perhaps The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp’d From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. CARLOS WILCOX, 1794–1827.

OCTOBER.

A SONNET.

Ay, thou art welcome, Heaven’s delicious breath,
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny south! oh still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,

Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

NOVEMBER.

A SONNET.

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare. One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze Nods lonely, of the beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And men delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

NOVEMBER.

November’s sky is chill and drear, November’s leaf is red and sree; Late, gazing down the steepy linn, That hems our little garden in, Low in its dark and narrow glen, You scarce the rivulet might ken, So thick the tangled greenwood grew, So feeble trill’d the streamlet through; Now murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen Through bush and brier, no longer green, An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with double speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

No longer Autumn’s glowing red Upon our forest hills is shed; No more, beneath the evening beam, Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam; Away hath pass’d the heather-bells, That bloom’d so rich on Needpath-fell, Sallow his brow, and russet bare, Are now the sister heights of Yair. The sheep, before the pinching heaven, To shelter’d dale and down are driven, Where yet some faded herbage pines, And yet a watery sunbeam shines; In meek despondency they eye The withered sward and wintry sky, And far beneath their summer hill, Stray sadly by Glenkinnon’s rill: The shepherd shifts his mantle’s fold, And wraps him closer from the cold; His dogs no merry circles wheel, But, shivering, follow at his heel; A cowering glance they often cast, As deeper moans the gathering blast. SIR WALTER SCOTT.

NOVEMBER IN ENGLAND.

No sun—no moon!
No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—
No sky—no earthly view—
No distance, looking blue—
No road—no street—no t’other side the way—
No end to any “row”—
No indications where the “crescents”
No top to any steeple—
No recognitions of familiar people—
No courtesies for showing ’em—
No knowing ’em!—
No traveling at all—no locomotion—
No inkling of the way—no notion—
“No go,” by land or ocean—
No mail—no post—
No news from any foreign coast—

No park, no ring—no afternoon gentility—
No company, or nobility—
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade—no shine—no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds.
November!
T. HOOD.

SONNET.

NOVEMBER, 1792.

There is strange music in the stirring wind When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood’s cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope-reclined Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sear. If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Thou late hast pass’d the happier hours of spring, With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year; Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn Or eve thou’st shared, to distant scenes shall stray. O spring, return! return, auspicious May! But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn, If she return not with thy cheering ray, Who from these shades is gone, gone far away! REV. WILLIAM L. BOWLES.

SONG.

DECEMBER.

I.

A spirit haunts the year’s last hours,
Dwelling amidst these yellowing bowers:
To himself he talks;
For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh,
In the walks;
Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the moldering flowers;
Heavily hangs the broad sun-flower
O’er its grave, the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

II.

The air is damp, and hushed, and close,
As a rich man’s room, where he taketh repose
An hour before death;
My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves
At the moist, rich smell of the rotting leaves,
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year’s last rose.
Heavily hangs the broad sun-flower
Over its grave, the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

XIX.
=The Schoolmistress.=

One does not often meet with Shenstone’s “Schoolmistress” now-a-days, and as every year makes her more of a rarity, we have given her a place in our rustic group. There appears to be no doubt that Shenstone, who learned to read from the old dame who taught the village school at Hales-Owen, his native hamlet, sketched from life, when he drew the old “Schoolmistress,” her blue apron, her single hen, and the noisy little troop about her. To us, however, in these very different days, the simple rustic sketch assumes something of the dignity of an historical picture.

The little thatched cottage of the dame is still to be seen near Hales-Owen, as well as the gabled roof of the Leasowes, under which the poet was born. The old homes of England, whether cot or castle, are seldom leveled by the hand of man, and they long remain as links between successive generations.

A few of the stanzas have been omitted, in order to bring the poem within the limits of this volume.

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

* * * * *

In every village mark’d with little spire,
Embower’d in trees, and hardly known to Fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name,
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw’d by the power of this relentless dame,
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn’d, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did stowe,
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
Though now so wide its waving branches flow,
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder’d, and their pulse beat low;
And as they look’d, they found their horror grew,
And shap’d it into rods, and tingled at the view.

So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac’d;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast;
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy
May no bold Briton’s riper age e’er taste!
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door imprisoning-board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray,
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!
The noises intermix’d, which thence resound,
Do Learning’s little tenement betray;
Where sits the dame, disguis’d in look profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet, of decency does yield;

Her apron dy’d in grain, is blue, I trowe,
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field;
And in her hand for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fears entwin’d,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill’d,
And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join’d,
And fury uncontroul’d and chastisement unkind.

Few but have ken’d, in semblance meet portray’d,
The childish faces of old Eol’s train;
Libs, Notus, Auster; these in frowns array’d,
How then would fare on earth, or sky, or main,
Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein?
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell,
And were not she her statutes to maintain,
The cot no more, I ween, were deem’d the cell,
Where comely peace of mind and decent order dwell.

A russet stole was o’er her shoulders thrown;
A russet kirtle fenc’d the nipping air;
’Twas simple russet, but it was her own;
’Twas her own country bred the flock so fair;
’Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;
And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang’d around,
Through pious awe did term it passing rare;
For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground!

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt the truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good-woman, n’aunt, forsooth,
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;
Yet these she challeng’d, these she held right dear;
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honour’d eld with these revere;
For never title yet so mean could prove,
But there was eke a mind that did that title love.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame;
Which, ever and anon, impelled by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came!
Such favor did her past deportment claim;
And if Neglect had lavish’d on the ground
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same,
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak,
That in her garden sipp’d the silvery dew;
Where no vain flower disclos’d a gaudy streak;
But herbs for use and physic not a few,
Of grey renown, within those borders grew;
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,
Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue;
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb;
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung,
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around;
And pungent radish, biting infant’s tongue;
And plantain ribb’d, that heals the reaper’s wound;
And marjoram sweet, in shepherd’s posie found;
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom
Shall be erewhile in arid bundles bound,
To lurk amid the labours of her loom,
And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume.

And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown’d
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer,
Ere, driven from its envied site, it found,
A sacred shelter for its branches here;
Where edged with gold its glittering skirts appear.
Oh wassel days! O customs meet and well!
Ere this was banish’d from its lofty sphere;
Simplicity then sought this humble cell,
Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell.

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath’s decent eve,
Hymnèd such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete
If winter ’twere, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-seat;
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat
How Israel’s sons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foemen did a song entreat,
All for the nonce, untuning every string,
Uphung their useless lyres—small heart had they to sing.

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,
And pass’d much time in truly virtuous deed;
And in those elfin ears would oft deplore
The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed,
And tortuous Death was true Devotion’s meed;
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn,
That nould on wooden image place her creed;

And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn;
Ah, dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should e’er return!

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac’d,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac’d,
The matron sate, and some with rank she grac’d,
(The source of children’s and of courtiers’ pride!)
Redress’d affronts, for vile affronts there pass’d;
And warn’d them not the fretful to deride,
But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

Right well she knew each temper to descry;
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise;
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high,
And some entice with pittance small of praise;
And other some with baleful sprig she frays;
E’en absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways;
Forewarn’d if little bird their pranks behold,
'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo! now with state she utters the command;
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair;
Their books of stature small they take in hand,
Which with pellucid horn securèd are,
To save from fingers wet the letters fair;
The work so gay, that on their back is seen,
St. George’s high achievements doth declare;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forthcoming rod—unpleasing sight, I ween!

Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil star! it irks me while I write;
As erst the bard by Mulla’s silver stream,
Oft as he told of deadly, dolorous plight,
Sigh’d as he sung, and did in tears indite.
For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin
To loose the brogues, the stripling’s late delight!
And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,
Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.

O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
His little sister doth his peril see;
All playful as she sate, she grows demure;
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee;

She meditates a prayer to set him free;
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny,
(If gentle pardon could with dames agree)
To her sad grief, which swells in either eye,
And wrings her so that all for pity she could die.

No longer can she now her shrieks command,
And hardly she forbears, through awful fear,
To rushen forth, and with presumptuous hand,
To stay harsh justice in his mid-career.
On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear!
(Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!)
She sees no kind domestic visage near,
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow,
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.

But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace?
Or what device his loud laments explain?
The form uncouth of his disguised face?
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain?
The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain?
When he in abject wise implores the dame,
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain;
Or when from high she levels well her aim,
And through the thatch his cries each falling stroke proclaim.

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay,
Attend, and con their tasks with mickle care;
By turns, astonied, every twig survey,
And from their fellow’s hateful wounds beware,
Knowing, I wis, how each the same may share,
Till fear has taught them a performance meet,
And to the well-known chest the dame repair,
Whence oft with sugar’d cates she doth them greet,
And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet.

See to their seats they hie with merry glee,
And in beseemly order sitten there;
All but the wight of flesh y-gallèd; he
Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and chair;
(This hand in mouth y-fix’d, that rends his hair;)
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast,
Convulsions intermitting, doth declare
His grievous wrong, his dame’s unjust behest;
And scorns her offer’d love, and shuns to be caress’d.

His face besprent with liquid crystal shines,
His blooming face that seems a purple flower,

Which low to earth its drooping head declines,
All smear’d and sullied by a vernal shower.
O the hard bosoms of despotic Power!
All, all but she, the author of his shame,
All, all but she, regret this mournful hour;
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower, shall claim,
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame.
WILLIAM SHENSTONE, 1714–1763.

]

THE HAMLET.

AN ODE.

The hinds how blest, who ne’er beguiled To quit their hamlet’s hawthorn wild, Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, For splendid care and guilty gain!

When morning’s twilight-tinctured beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew; The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, That nodding shades a craggy dell.

Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild nature’s sweetest notes they hear: On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth’s neglected hue; In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, They spy the squirrel’s airy bounds; And startle from her ashen spray, Across the glen, the screaming jay: Each native charm their steps explore Of Solitude’s sequester’d store.

For them the moon with cloudless ray Mounts, to illume their homeward way: Their weary spirits to relieve, The meadows incense breathe at eve. No riot mars the simple fare, That o’er a glimmering hearth they share: But when the curfew’s measured roar Duly, the darkening valleys o’er,

Has echoed from the distant town, They wish no beds of cygnet-down, No trophied canopies, to close Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primrosed coppice stray, Or gambol in the new-mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill, To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine’s gloomy crest, To rob the raven’s ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honey’d flowers The curling woodbine’s shade embowers; From the small garden’s thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound: Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume life’s golden prime. But when their temples long have wore The silver crown of tresses hoar, As studious still calm peace to keep, Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. T. WARTON, 1728–1790.

THE NOSEGAY.

FROM “JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST.”

With us the nosegay yet retains its station as a decoration to our Sunday beaux; but at our spring clubs and associations it becomes an essential, indispensable appointment, a little of the spirit of rivalry seeming to animate our youths in the choice and magnitude of this adornment. The superb spike of a Brompton, or ten-weeks’-stock long cherished in some sheltered corner for the occasion, surrounded by all the gayety the garden can afford, till it presents a very bush of flowers, forms the appendage of their bosoms, and, with the gay knots in their hats, their best garments, and the sprightly hilarity of their looks, constitutes a pleasing village scene, and gives an hour of unencumbered felicity to common man and rural life, not yet disturbed by refinement and taste.

J. L. KNAPP.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

A well there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There’s not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne—
Joyfully he drew nigh;
For from cock-crow he had been traveling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;
And he sat down upon the bank,
Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by,
At the well to fill his pail;
On the well-side he rested it,
And he bade the stranger hail.

“Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he!
“For an if thou hast a wife,
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.

“Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been?
For an if she have, I’ll venture my life,
She has drank of the well of St. Keyne.”

“I have left a good woman who never was here,”
The stranger he made reply;
“But that my draught should be the better for that,
I pray you answer me why.”

“St. Keyne,” quoth the Cornishman, “many a time
Drank of this crystal well;
And before the angel summoned her,
She laid on the water a spell.

“If the husband, of this gifted well,
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man henceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life.

“But if the wife should drink of it first—
God help the husband then!”
The stranger stoop’d to the well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?”
He to the Cornishman said;
But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head:

“I hasten’d as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch;
But i’ faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church!”
_Westbury, 1798._ ROBERT SOUTHEY

LOSEL’S FARM.

FROM “THE SAD SHEPHERD.”

An hundred udders for the pail I have That give me milk and curds that make me cheese To cloy the markets! Twenty swarm of bees, Which all the summer hum about the hive And bring me wax and honey in bilive. An aged oak, the king of all the field, With a broad beech, there grows before my door, That mickle mast unto the farm doth yield. A chestnut which hath larded mony a swine, Whose skins I wear to fend me from the cold; A poplar grey, and with a kerved seat, Under whose shade I solace in the heat; And thence can see gang out and in my neat. Twa trilland brooks, each from his spring doth meet, And make a river to refresh my feet; In which each morning, ere the sun doth rise, I look myself, and clear my pleasant eyes, Before I pipe; for therein have I skill 'Bove other swineherds. Bid me, and I will Straight play to you, and make you melody. BEN JONSON, 1574–1637

GIPSIES.

We have few gipsies in our neighborhood. In spite of our tempting green lanes, our woody dells, and heathy commons, the rogues don’t take to us. I am afraid we are too civilized—too cautious; our sheepfolds are too closely watched; our barn-yards are too well guarded; our geese and ducks too fastly penned; our chickens too securely locked up; our little pigs too safe in their sty; our game too scarce; our laundresses too careful. In short, we are too little primitive; we have a snug brood of vagabonds and poachers of our own, to say nothing of their regular followers, constables and justices of the peace. We have stocks in the village, and a tread-mill in the next town, and therefore we go gipsy-less—a misfortune of which every landscape painter and every lover of that living landscape, the country, can appreciate the extent. There is nothing under the sun that harmonizes so well with nature, especially in her woodland recesses, as that picturesque people, who are, so to say, the wild genus—the pheasants and roebucks of the human race.

Sometimes, indeed, we used to see a gipsy procession passing along the common, like an Eastern caravan, men, women, children, donkeys, and dogs; and sometimes a patch of bare earth, strewed with ashes and surrounded by scathed turf, on the broad green margin of some cross-road, would give token of a gipsy hall; but a regular gipsy encampment has always been so rare an event, that I was equally surprised and delighted to meet with one in the course of my walks last autumn. * * * They had pitched their little tent under one of the oak trees, perhaps from a certain dim sense of natural beauty, which those who live with nature in the fields are seldom totally without; perhaps because the neighborhood of the coppices and of the deserted hall was favorable to the acquisition of game, and of the little fuel which their hardy habits required. The party consisted only of four—an old crone in a tattered red cloak and black bonnet, who was stooping over a kettle, of which the contents were probably as savory as that of Meg Merrilies’, renowned in story; a pretty black-eyed girl at work under the trees; a sun-burned urchin of eight or nine, collecting sticks and dead leaves to feed their out-of-door fire; and a slender lad, two or three years older, who lay basking in the sun, with a couple of shabby dogs of the sort called mongrel, in all the joy of idleness, while a grave, patient donkey stood grazing hard by. It was a pretty picture, with its soft autumnal sky, its rich woodiness, its verdure, the light smoke curling from the fire, and the group disposed around it so harmless, poor outcasts! and so happy—a beautiful picture! The old gipsy was a celebrated fortune-teller, and the post having been so long vacant, she could not have

brought her talents to a better market. The whole village rang with the predictions of this modern Cassandra—unlike her Trojan predecessor, inasmuch as her prophecies were never of ill. I myself could not help admiring the real cleverness and genuine gipsy tact with which she adapted her foretellings to the age, the habits, and the known desires and circumstances of her clients.