Letter in Verse
Like boys that run behind the loaded wainFor the mere joy of riding back again,When summer from the meadow carts the hayAnd school hours leave them half a day to play;So I with leisure on three sides a sheetOf foolscap dance with poesy's measured feet,Just to ride post upon the wings of timeAnd kill a care, to friendship turned in rhyme.The muse's gallop hurries me in sportWith much to read and little to divert,And I, amused, with less of wit than will,Run till I tire.—And so to cheat her still.Like children running races who shall beFirst in to touch the orchard wall or tree,The last half way behind, by distance vext,Turns short, determined to be first the next;So now the muse has run me hard and long—I'll leave at once her races and her song;And, turning round, laugh at the letter's closeAnd beat her out by ending it in prose.
Snow Storm
What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stopsTo howl more loud, while the snow volley keepsIncessant batter at the window pane,Making our comfort feel as sweet again;And in the morning, when the tempest drops,At every cottage door mountainous heapsOf snow lie drifted, that all entrance stopsUntill the beesom and the shovel gainThe path, and leave a wall on either side.The shepherd rambling valleys white and wideWith new sensations his old memory fills,When hedges left at night, no more descried,Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills,And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.
The boy that goes to fodder with surpriseWalks oer the gate he opened yesternight.The hedges all have vanished from his eyes;Een some tree tops the sheep could reach to bite.The novel scene emboldens new delight,And, though with cautious steps his sports begin,He bolder shuffles the huge hills of snow,Till down he drops and plunges to the chin,And struggles much and oft escape to win—Then turns and laughs but dare not further go;For deep the grass and bushes lie below,Where little birds that soon at eve went inWith heads tucked in their wings now pine for dayAnd little feel boys oer their heads can stray.
Firwood
The fir trees taper into twigs and wearThe rich blue green of summer all the year,Softening the roughest tempest almost calmAnd offering shelter ever still and warmTo the small path that towels underneath,Where loudest winds—almost as summer's breath—Scarce fan the weed that lingers green belowWhen others out of doors are lost in frost and snow.And sweet the music trembles on the earAs the wind suthers through each tiny spear,Makeshifts for leaves; and yet, so rich they show,Winter is almost summer where they grow.
Grasshoppers
Grasshoppers go in many a thumming springAnd now to stalks of tasseled sow-grass cling,That shakes and swees awhile, but still keeps straight;While arching oxeye doubles with his weight.Next on the cat-tail-grass with farther boundHe springs, that bends until they touch the ground.
Field Path
The beams in blossom with their spots of jetSmelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met;The level meadow grass was in the swath;The hedge briar rose hung right across the path,White over with its flowers—the grass that layBleaching beneath the twittering heat to haySmelt so deliciously, the puzzled beeWent wondering where the honey sweets could be;And passer-bye along the level rowsStoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.
Country Letter
Dear brother robin this comes from us all With our kind love and could Gip write and all Though but a dog he'd have his love to spare For still he knows and by your corner chair The moment he comes in he lyes him down and seems to fancy you are in the town. This leaves us well in health thank God for that For old acquaintance Sue has kept your hat Which mother brushes ere she lays it bye and every sunday goes upstairs to cry Jane still is yours till you come back agen and neer so much as dances with the men and ned the woodman every week comes in and asks about you kindly as our kin and he with this and goody Thompson sends Remembrances with those of all our friends Father with us sends love untill he hears and mother she has nothing but her tears Yet wishes you like us in health the same and longs to see a letter with your name So loving brother don't forget to write Old Gip lies on the hearth stone every night Mother can't bear to turn him out of doors and never noises now of dirty floors Father will laugh but lets her have her way and Gip for kindness get a double pay So Robin write and let us quickly see You don't forget old friends no more than we Nor let my mother have so much to blame To go three journeys ere your letter came.
From "January"
Supper removed, the mother sits,And tells her tales by starts and fits.Not willing to lose time or toil,She knits or sews, and talks the whileSomething, that may be warnings foundTo the young listeners gaping round—Of boys who in her early dayStrolled to the meadow-lake to play,Where willows, oer the bank inclinedSheltered the water from the wind,And left it scarcely crizzled oer—When one sank in, to rise no more!And how, upon a market-night,When not a star bestowed its light,A farmer's shepherd, oer his glass,Forgot that he had woods to pass:And having sold his master's sheep,Was overta'en by darkness deep.How, coming with his startled horse,To where two roads a hollow cross;Where, lone guide when a stranger strays,A white post points four different ways,Beside the woodride's lonely gateA murdering robber lay in wait.The frightened horse, with broken rein,Stood at the stable-door again;But none came home to fill his rack,Or take the saddle from his back;The saddle—it was all he bore—The man was seen alive no more!—In her young days, beside the wood,The gibbet in its terror stood:Though now decayed, tis not forgot,But dreaded as a haunted spot.—
She from her memory oft repeatsWitches' dread powers and fairy feats:How one has oft been known to pranceIn cowcribs, like a coach, to France,And ride on sheep-trays from the foldA race-horse speed to Burton-hold;To join the midnight mystery's rout,Where witches meet the yews about:And how, when met with unawares,They turn at once to cats or hares,And race along with hellish flight,Now here, now there, now out of sight!—And how the other tiny thingsWill leave their moonlight meadow-rings,And, unperceived, through key-holes creep,When all around have sunk to sleep,To feast on what the cotter leaves,—Mice are not reckoned greater thieves.They take away, as well as eat,And still the housewife's eye they cheat,In spite of all the folks that swarmIn cottage small and larger farm;They through each key-hole pop and pop,Like wasps into a grocer's shop,With all the things that they can winFrom chance to put their plunder in;—As shells of walnuts, split in twoBy crows, who with the kernels flew;Or acorn-cups, by stock-doves plucked,Or egg-shells by a cuckoo sucked;With broad leaves of the sycamoreThey clothe their stolen dainties oer:And when in cellar they regale,Bring hazel-nuts to hold their ale;With bung-holes bored by squirrels well,To get the kernel from the shell;Or maggots a way out to win,When all is gone that grew within;And be the key-holes eer so high,Rush poles a ladder's help supply.Where soft the climbers fearless tread,On spindles made of spiders' thread.And foul, or fair, or dark the night,Their wild-fire lamps are burning bright:For which full many a daring crimeIs acted in the summer-time;—When glow-worm found in lanes remoteIs murdered for its shining coat,And put in flowers, that nature weavesWith hollow shapes and silken leaves,Such as the Canterbury bell,Serving for lamp or lantern well;Or, following with unwearied watchThe flight of one they cannot match,As silence sliveth upon sleep,Or thieves by dozing watch-dogs creep,They steal from Jack-a-Lantern's tailsA light, whose guidance never failsTo aid them in the darkest nightAnd guide their plundering steps aright.Rattling away in printless tracks,Some, housed on beetles' glossy backs,Go whisking on—and others hieAs fast as loaded moths can fly:Some urge, the morning cock to shun,The hardest gallop mice can run,In chariots, lolling at their ease,Made of whateer their fancies please;—Things that in childhood's memory dwell—Scooped crow-pot-stone, or cockle-shell,With wheels at hand of mallow seeds,Where childish sport was stringing beads;And thus equipped, they softly passLike shadows on the summer-grass,And glide away in troops togetherJust as the Spring-wind drives a feather.As light as happy dreams they creep,Nor break the feeblest link of sleep:A midge, if in their road a-bed,Feels not the wheels run oer his head,But sleeps till sunrise calls him up,Unconscious of the passing troop,—
Thus dame the winter-night regalesWith wonder's never-ceasing tales;While in a corner, ill at ease,Or crushing tween their father's knees,The children—silent all the while—And een repressed the laugh or smile—Quake with the ague chills of fear,And tremble though they love to hear;Starting, while they the tales recall,At their own shadows on the wall:Till the old clock, that strikes unseenBehind the picture-pasted screenWhere Eve and Adam still agreeTo rob Life's fatal apple-tree,Counts over bed-time's hour of rest,And bids each be sleep's fearful guest.She then her half-told tales will leaveTo finish on to-morrow's eve;—The children steal away to bed,And up the ladder softly tread;Scarce daring—from their fearful joys—To look behind or make a noise;Nor speak a word! but still as sleepThey secret to their pillows creep,And whisper oer, in terror's way,The prayers they dare no louder say;Then hide their heads beneath the clothes,And try in vain to seek repose:While yet, to fancy's sleepless eye,Witches on sheep-trays gallop by,And fairies, like a rising spark,Swarm twittering round them in the dark;Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares,And drops upon them unawares.
November
The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon;And, if the sun looks through, tis with a faceBeamless and pale and round, as if the moon,When done the journey of her nightly race,Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place.For days the shepherds in the fields may be,Nor mark a patch of sky—blindfold they trace,The plains, that seem without a bush or tree,Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.
The timid hare seems half its fears to lose,Crouching and sleeping neath its grassy lair,And scarcely startles, though the shepherd goesClose by its home, and dogs are barking there;The wild colt only turns around to stareAt passer by, then knaps his hide again;And moody crows beside the road forbearTo fly, though pelted by the passing swain;Thus day seems turned to night, and tries to wake in vain.
The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon,And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light;The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon,And small birds chirp and startle with affright;Much doth it scare the superstitious wight,Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay;While cow-boys think the day a dream of night,And oft grow fearful on their lonely way,Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.
Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flingsIts murky prison round—then winds wake loud;With sudden stir the startled forest singsWinter's returning song-cloud races cloud.And the horizon throws away its shroud,Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye;Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd,And oer the sameness of the purple skyHeaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.
At length it comes among the forest oaks,With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high;The scared, hoarse raven on its cradle croaks,And stockdove-flocks in hurried terrors fly,While the blue hawk hangs oer them in the sky.—The hedger hastens from the storm begun,To seek a shelter that may keep him dry;And foresters low bent, the wind to shun,Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher's muttering gun.
The ploughman hears its humming rage begin,And hies for shelter from his naked toil;Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin,He bends and scampers oer the elting soil,While clouds above him in wild fury boil,And winds drive heavily the beating rain;He turns his back to catch his breath awhile,Then ekes his speed and faces it again,To seek the shepherd's hut beside the rushy plain.
The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheatThe melancholy crow—in hurry weaves,Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat,Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves,Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves.There he doth dithering sit, and entertainHis eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves;Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en,And wishing in his heart twas summer-time again.
Thus wears the month along, in checkered moods,Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms;One hour dies silent oer the sleepy woods,The next wakes loud with unexpected storms;A dreary nakedness the field deforms—Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight,Lives in the village still about the farms,Where toil's rude uproar hums from morn till nightNoises, in which the ears of industry delight.
At length the stir of rural labour's still,And industry her care awhile foregoes;When winter comes in earnest to fulfilHis yearly task, at bleak November's close,And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows;When frost locks up the stream in chill delayAnd mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes,For little birds—then toil hath time for play,And nought but threshers' flails awake the dreary day.
The Fens
Wandering by the river's edge,I love to rustle through the sedgeAnd through the woods of reed to tearAlmost as high as bushes are.Yet, turning quick with shudder chill,As danger ever does from ill,Fear's moment ague quakes the blood,While plop the snake coils in the floodAnd, hissing with a forked tongue,Across the river winds along.In coat of orange, green, and blueNow on a willow branch I view,Grey waving to the sunny gleam,Kingfishers watch the ripple streamFor little fish that nimble byeAnd in the gravel shallows lie.
Eddies run before the boats,Gurgling where the fisher floats,Who takes advantage of the galeAnd hoists his handkerchief for sailOn osier twigs that form a mast—While idly lies, nor wanted more,The spirit that pushed him on before.
There's not a hill in all the view,Save that a forked cloud or twoUpon the verge of distance liesAnd into mountains cheats the eyes.And as to trees the willows wearLopped heads as high as bushes are;Some taller things the distance shroudsThat may be trees or stacks or cloudsOr may be nothing; still they wearA semblance where there's nought to spare.
Among the tawny tasselled reedThe ducks and ducklings float and feed.With head oft dabbing in the floodThey fish all day the weedy mud,And tumbler-like are bobbing there,Heels topsy turvy in the air.
The geese in troops come droving up,Nibble the weeds, and take a sup;And, closely puzzled to agree,Chatter like gossips over tea.The gander with his scarlet noseWhen strife's at height will interpose;And, stretching neck to that and this,With now a mutter, now a hiss,A nibble at the feathers too,A sort of "pray be quiet do,"And turning as the matter mends,He stills them into mutual friends;Then in a sort of triumph singsAnd throws the water oer his wings.
Ah, could I see a spinney nigh,A puddock riding in the skyAbove the oaks with easy sailOn stilly wings and forked tail,Or meet a heath of furze in flower,I might enjoy a quiet hour,Sit down at rest, and walk at ease,And find a many things to please.But here my fancy's moods admireThe naked levels till they tire,Nor een a molehill cushion meetTo rest on when I want a seat.
Here's little save the river sceneAnd grounds of oats in rustling greenAnd crowded growth of wheat and beans,That with the hope of plenty leansAnd cheers the farmer's gazing brow,Who lives and triumphs in the plough—One sometimes meets a pleasant swardOf swarthy grass; and quickly marredThe plough soon turns it into brown,And, when again one rambles downThe path, small hillocks burning lieAnd smoke beneath a burning sky.Green paddocks have but little charmsWith gain the merchandise of farms;And, muse and marvel where we may,Gain mars the landscape every day—The meadow grass turned up and copt,The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt,The hearth with fuel to supplyFor rest to smoke and chatter bye;Giving the joy of home delights,The warmest mirth on coldest nights.And so for gain, that joy's repay,Change cheats the landscape every day,Nor trees nor bush about it growsThat from the hatchet can repose,And the horizon stooping smilesOer treeless fens of many miles.Spring comes and goes and comes againAnd all is nakedness and fen.
Spear Thistle
Where the broad sheepwalk bare and brown[Yields] scant grass pining after showers,And winds go fanning up and downThe little strawy bents and nodding flowers,There the huge thistle, spurred with many thorns,The suncrackt upland's russet swells adorns.
Not undevoid of beauty there they come,Armed warriors, waiting neither suns nor showers,Guarding the little clover plots to bloomWhile sheep nor oxen dare not crop their flowersUnsheathing their own knobs of tawny flowersWhen summer cometh in her hottest hours.
The pewit, swopping up and downAnd screaming round the passer bye,Or running oer the herbage brownWith copple crown uplifted high,Loves in its clumps to make a homeWhere danger seldom cares to come.
The yellowhammer, often prestFor spot to build and be unseen,Will in its shelter trust her nestWhen fields and meadows glow with green;And larks, though paths go closely bye,Will in its shade securely lie.
The partridge too, that scarce can trustThe open downs to be at rest,Will in its clumps lie down, and dustAnd prune its horseshoe-circled breast,And oft in shining fields of greenWill lay and raise its brood unseen.
The sheep when hunger presses soreMay nip the clover round its nest;But soon the thistle wounding soreRelieves it from each brushing guest,That leaves a bit of wool behind,The yellowhammer loves to find.
The horse will set his foot and biteClose to the ground lark's guarded nestAnd snort to meet the prickly sight;He fans the feathers of her breast—Yet thistles prick so deep that heTurns back and leaves her dwelling free.
Its prickly knobs the dews of mornDoth bead with dressing rich to see,When threads doth hang from thorn to thornLike the small spinner's tapestry;And from the flowers a sultry smellComes that agrees with summer well.
The bee will make its bloom a bed,The humble bee in tawny brown;And one in jacket fringed with redWill rest upon its velvet downWhen overtaken in the rain,And wait till sunshine comes again.
And there are times when travel goesAlong the sheep tracks' beaten ways,Then pleasure many a praise bestowsUpon its blossoms' pointed rays,When other things are parched besideAnd hot day leaves it in its pride.
Idle Fame
I would not wish the burning blazeOf fame around a restless world,The thunder and the storm of praiseIn crowded tumults heard and hurled.I would not be a flower to standThe stare of every passer-bye;But in some nook of fairyland,Seen in the praise of beauty's eye.
Approaching Night
O take this world away from me;Its strife I cannot bear to see,Its very praises hurt me moreThan een its coldness did before,Its hollow ways torment me nowAnd start a cold sweat on my brow,Its noise I cannot bear to hear,Its joy is trouble to my ear,Its ways I cannot bear to see,Its crowds are solitudes to me.O, how I long to be agenThat poor and independent man,With labour's lot from morn to nightAnd books to read at candle light;That followed labour in the fieldFrom light to dark when toil could yieldReal happiness with little gain,Rich thoughtless health unknown to pain:Though, leaning on my spade to rest,I've thought how richer folks were blestAnd knew not quiet was the best.
Go with your tauntings, go;Neer think to hurt me so;I'll scoff at your disdain.Cold though the winter blow,When hills are free from snowIt will be spring again.
So go, and fare thee well,Nor think ye'll have to tellOf wounded hearts from me,Locked up in your hearts cell.Mine still at home doth dwellIn its first liberty.
Bees sip not at one flower,Spring comes not with one shower,Nor shines the sun aloneUpon one favoured hour,But with unstinted powerMakes every day his own.
And for my freedom's sakeWith such I'll pattern take,And rove and revel on.Your gall shall never makeMe honied paths forsake;So prythee get thee gone.
And when my toil is blestAnd I find a maid possestOf truth that's not in thee,Like bird that finds its nestI'll stop and take my rest;And love as she loves me.
Farewell and Defiance to Love
Love and thy vain employs, awayFrom this too oft deluded breast!No longer will I court thy stay,To be my bosom's teazing guest.Thou treacherous medicine, reckoned pure,Thou quackery of the harassed heart,That kills what it pretends to cure,Life's mountebank thou art.
With nostrums vain of boasted powers,That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave;An asp hid in a group of flowers,That bites and stings when few perceive;Thou mock-truce to the troubled mind,Leading it more in sorrow's way,Freedom, that leaves us more confined,I bid thee hence away.
Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyondThe resolution reason gave?Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond,That kept me once thy quiet slave,And made thy snare a spider's thread,Which een my breath can break in twain;Nor will I be, like Sampson, ledTo trust thy wiles again.
I took thee as my staff to guideMe on the road I did pursue,And when my weakness most reliedUpon its strength it broke in two.I took thee as my friendly hostThat counsel might in dangers show,But when I needed thee the mostI found thou wert my foe.
Tempt me no more with rosy cheeks,Nor daze my reason with bright eyes;I'm wearied with thy painted freaks,And sicken at such vanities:Be roses fine as eer they will,They, with the meanest, fade and die,And eyes, though thronged with darts to kill,Share like mortality.Feed the young bard, that madly sipsHis nectar-draughts from folly's flowers,Bright eyes, fair cheeks, and ruby lips,Till muses melt to honey showers;Lure him to thrum thy empty lays,While flattery listens to the chimes,Till words themselves grow sick with praiseAnd stop for want of rhymes.
Let such be still thy paramours,And chaunt love's old and idle tune,Robbing the spring of all its flowers,And heaven of all her stars and moon,To gild with dazzling similesBlind folly's vain and empty lay:I'm sobered from such phantasies,So get thee hence away.
Nor bid me sigh for mine own cost,Nor count its loss, for mine annoy,Nor say my stubbornness hath lostA paradise of dainty joy:I'll not believe thee, till I knowThat sober reason turns an ape,And acts the harlequin, to showThat cares in every shape,
Heart-achings, sighs, and grief-wrung tears,Shame-blushes at betrayed distress,Dissembled smiles, and jealous fears,Are nought but real happiness:Then will I mourn what now I brave,And suffer Celia's quirks to be(Like a poor fate-bewilder'd slave,)The rulers of my destiny.
I'll weep and sigh wheneer she willsTo frown, and when she deigns to smileIt shall be cure for all my ills,And, foolish still, I'll laugh the while;But till that comes, I'll bless the rulesExperience taught, and deem it wiseTo hold thee as the game of fools,And all thy tricks despise.
To John Milton
"From his honoured friend, William Davenant"
Poet of mighty power, I fainWould court the muse that honoured thee,And, like Elisha's spirit, gainA part of thy intensity;And share the mantle which she flungAround thee, when thy lyre was strung.
Though faction's scorn at first did shunWith coldness thy inspired song,Though clouds of malice passed thy sun,They could not hide it long;Its brightness soon exhaled awayDank night, and gained eternal day.
The critics' wrath did darkly frownUpon thy muse's mighty lay;But blasts that break the blossom downDo only stir the bay;And thine shall flourish, green and long,With the eternity of song.
Thy genius saw, in quiet mood,Gilt fashion's follies pass thee by,And, like the monarch of the wood,Towered oer it to the sky,Where thou couldst sing of other spheres,And feel the fame of future years.
Though bitter sneers and stinging scornsDid throng the muse's dangerous way,Thy powers were past such little thorns,They gave thee no dismay;The scoffer's insult passed thee by,Thou smild'st and mad'st him no reply.
Envy will gnaw its heart awayTo see thy genius gather root;And as its flowers their sweets displayScorn's malice shall be mute;Hornets that summer warmed to fly,Shall at the death of summer die.
Though friendly praise hath but its hour.And little praise with thee hath been;The bay may lose its summer flower,But still its leaves are green;And thine, whose buds are on the shoot,Shall only fade to change to fruit.
Fame lives not in the breath of words,In public praises' hue and cry;The music of these summer birdsIs silent in a winter sky,When thine shall live and flourish on,Oer wrecks where crowds of fames are gone.
The ivy shuns the city wall,When busy clamorous crowds intrude,And climbs the desolated hallIn silent solitude;The time-worn arch, the fallen dome,Are roots for its eternal home.
The bard his glory neer receivesWhere summer's common flowers are seen,But winter finds it when she leavesThe laurel only green;And time from that eternal tree,Shall weave a wreath to honour thee;
A sunny wreath for poets meet,From Helicon's immortal soil,Where sacred Time with pilgrim feetWalks forth to worship, not to spoil,A wreath which Fame creates and bears,And deathless genius only heirs.
Nought but thy ashes shall expire;Thy genius, at thy obsequies,Shall kindle up its living fireAnd light the muse's skies;Ay, it shall rise, and shine, and beA sun in song's posterity.
The Vanities of Life
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.—Solomon
What are life's joys and gains?What pleasures crowd its ways,That man should take such painsTo seek them all his days?Sift this untoward strifeOn which thy mind is bent:See if this chaff of lifeIs worth the trouble spent.
Is pride thy heart's desire?Is power thy climbing aim?Is love thy folly's fire?Is wealth thy restless game?Pride, power, love, wealth, and allTime's touchstone shall destroy,And, like base coin, prove allVain substitutes for joy.
Dost think that pride exaltsThyself in other's eyes,And hides thy folly's faults,Which reason will despise?Dost strut, and turn, and stride,Like walking weathercocks?The shadow by thy sideBecomes thy ape, and mocks.
Dost think that power's disguiseCan make thee mighty seem?It may in folly's eyes,But not in worth's esteem,When all that thou canst ask,And all that she can give,Is but a paltry maskWhich tyrants wear and live.
Go, let thy fancies rangeAnd ramble where they may;View power in every change,And what is the display?—The country magistrate,The meanest shade in power,To rulers of the state,The meteors of an hour.
View all, and mark the endOf every proud extreme,Where flattery turns a friend,And counterfeits esteem;Where worth is aped in show,That doth her name purloin,Like toys of golden glowThat's sold for copper coin.
Ambition's haughty nodWith fancies may deceive,Nay, tell thee thou'rt a god,And wilt thou such believe?Go, bid the seas be dry;Go, hold earth like a ball,Or throw thy fancies by,For God can do it all.
Dost thou possess the dowerOf laws to spare or kill?Call it not heavenly powerWhen but a tyrant's will.Know what a God will do,And know thyself a fool,Nor, tyrant-like, pursueWhere He alone should rule.
O put away thy pride,Or be ashamed of powerThat cannot turn asideThe breeze that waves a flower.Or bid the clouds be still:Though shadows, they can braveThy poor power mocking will:Then make not man a slave.
Dost think, when wealth is won,Thy heart has its desire?Hold ice up to the sun,And wax before the fire;Nor triumph oer the reignWhich they so soon resign;In this world's ways they gain,Insurance safe as thine.
Dost think life's peace secureIn house and in land?Go, read the fairy lureTo twist a cord in sand;Lodge stones upon the sky,Hold water in a sieve,Nor give such tales the lie,And still thine own believe.
Whoso with riches deals,And thinks peace bought and sold,Will find them slipping eels,That slide the firmest hold:Though sweet as sleep with healthThy lulling luck may be,Pride may oerstride thy wealth,And check prosperity.
Dost think that beauty's powerLife sweetest pleasure gives?Go, pluck the summer flower,And see how long it lives:Behold, the rays glide onAlong the summer plainEre thou canst say "they're gone,"And measure beauty's reign.
Look on the brightest eye,Nor teach it to be proud;View but the clearest sky,And thou shalt find a cloud;Nor call each face ye meetAn angel's, cause it's fair,But look beneath your feet,And think of what they are.
Who thinks that love doth liveIn beauty's tempting show,Shall find his hopes ungive,And melt in reason's thaw.Who thinks that pleasure liesIn every fairy bower,Shall oft, to his surprise,Find poison in the flower.
Dost lawless passions grasp?Judge not thou deal'st in joy:Its flowers but hide the asp,Thy revels to destroy.Who trusts an harlot's smile,And by her wiles are led,Plays, with a sword the whileHung dropping oer his head.
Dost doubt my warning song?Then doubt the sun gives light,Doubt truth to teach thee wrong,And wrong alone as right;And live as lives the knave,Intrigue's deceiving guest;Be tyrant, or be slave,As suits thy ends the best.
Or pause amid thy toilsFor visions won and lost,And count the fancied spoils,If eer they quit the cost:And if they still possessThy mind, as worthy things,Plat straws with bedlam Bess,And call them diamond rings.
Thy folly's past advice,Thy heart's already won,Thy fall's above all price,So go, and be undone;For all who thus preferThe seeming great for smallShall make wine vinegar,And sweetest honey gall.
Wouldst heed the truths I sing,To profit wherewithal,Clip folly's wanton wing,And keep her within call.I've little else to give,What thou canst easy try;The lesson how to liveIs but to learn to die.
Death
Why should man's high aspiring mindBurn in him with so proud a breath,When all his haughty views can findIn this world yields to death?The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise,The rich, the poor, the great, and small,Are each but worm's anatomiesTo strew his quiet hall.
Power may make many earthly gods,Where gold and bribery's guilt prevails,But death's unwelcome, honest oddsKick o'er the unequal scales.The flattered great may clamours raiseOf power, and their own weakness hide,But death shall find unlooked-for waysTo end the farce of pride,
An arrow hurtled eer so high,From een a giant's sinewy strength,In Time's untraced eternityGoes but a pigmy length;Nay, whirring from the tortured string,With all its pomp of hurried flight,Tis by the skylark's little wingOutmeasured in its height.
Just so man's boasted strength and powerShall fade before death's lightest stroke,Laid lower than the meanest flower,Whose pride oer-topt the oak;And he who, like a blighting blast,Dispeopled worlds with war's alarmsShall be himself destroyed at lastBy poor despised worms.
Tyrants in vain their powers secure,And awe slaves' murmurs with a frown,For unawed death at last is sureTo sap the babels down.A stone thrown upward to the skyWill quickly meet the ground agen;So men-gods of earth's vanityShall drop at last to men;
And Power and Pomp their all resign,Blood-purchased thrones and banquet halls.Fate waits to sack Ambition's shrineAs bare as prison walls,Where the poor suffering wretch bows downTo laws a lawless power hath passed;And pride, and power, and king, and clownShall be Death's slaves at last.
Time, the prime minister of Death!There's nought can bribe his honest will.He stops the richest tyrant's breathAnd lays his mischief still.Each wicked scheme for power all stops,With grandeurs false and mock display,As eve's shades from high mountain topsFade with the rest away.
Death levels all things in his march;Nought can resist his mighty strength;The palace proud, triumphal arch,Shall mete its shadow's length.The rich, the poor, one common bedShall find in the unhonoured grave,Where weeds shall crown alike the headOf tyrant and of slave.
The Fallen Elm
Old elm, that murmured in our chimney topThe sweetest anthem autumn ever madeAnd into mellow whispering calms would dropWhen showers fell on thy many coloured shadeAnd when dark tempests mimic thunder made—While darkness came as it would strangle lightWith the black tempest of a winter nightThat rocked thee like a cradle in thy root—How did I love to hear the winds upbraidThy strength without—while all within was mute.It seasoned comfort to our hearts' desire,We felt thy kind protection like a friendAnd edged our chairs up closer to the fire,Enjoying comfort that was never penned.Old favourite tree, thou'st seen time's changes lower,Though change till now did never injure thee;For time beheld thee as her sacred dowerAnd nature claimed thee her domestic tree.Storms came and shook thee many a weary hour,Yet stedfast to thy home thy roots have been;Summers of thirst parched round thy homely bowerTill earth grew iron—still thy leaves were green.The children sought thee in thy summer shadeAnd made their playhouse rings of stick and stone;The mavis sang and felt himself aloneWhile in thy leaves his early nest was made.And I did feel his happiness mine own,Nought heeding that our friendship was betrayed,Friend not inanimate—though stocks and stonesThere are, and many formed of flesh and bones.Thou owned a language by which hearts are stirredDeeper than by a feeling clothed in word,And speakest now what's known of every tongue,Language of pity and the force of wrong.What cant assumes, what hypocrites will dare,Speaks home to truth and shows it what they are.I see a picture which thy fate displaysAnd learn a lesson from thy destiny;Self-interest saw thee stand in freedom's ways—So thy old shadow must a tyrant be.Tnou'st heard the knave, abusing those in power,Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free;Thou'st sheltered hypocrites in many a shower,That when in power would never shelter thee.Thou'st heard the knave supply his canting powersWith wrong's illusions when he wanted friends;That bawled for shelter when he lived in showersAnd when clouds vanished made thy shade amends—With axe at root he felled thee to the groundAnd barked of freedom—O I hate the soundTime hears its visions speak,—and age sublimeHath made thee a disciple unto time.—It grows the cant term of enslaving toolsTo wrong another by the name of right;Thus came enclosure—ruin was its guide,But freedom's cottage soon was thrust asideAnd workhouse prisons raised upon the site.Een nature's dwellings far away from men,The common heath, became the spoiler's prey;The rabbit had not where to make his denAnd labour's only cow was drove away.No matter—wrong was right and right was wrong,And freedom's bawl was sanction to the song.—Such was thy ruin, music-making elm;The right of freedom was to injure thine:As thou wert served, so would they overwhelmIn freedom's name the little that is mine.And there are knaves that brawl for better lawsAnd cant of tyranny in stronger powerWho glut their vile unsatiated mawsAnd freedom's birthright from the weak devour.
Sport in the Meadows
Maytime is to the meadows coming in,And cowslip peeps have gotten eer so big,And water blobs and all their golden kinCrowd round the shallows by the striding brig.Daisies and buttercups and ladysmocksAre all abouten shining here and there,Nodding about their gold and yellow locksLike morts of folken flocking at a fair.The sheep and cows are crowding for a shareAnd snatch the blossoms in such eager hasteThat basket-bearing children running thereDo think within their hearts they'll get them allAnd hoot and drive them from their graceless wasteAs though there wa'n't a cowslip peep to spare.—For they want some for tea and some for wineAnd some to maken up a cuckaballTo throw across the garland's silken lineThat reaches oer the street from wall to wall.—Good gracious me, how merrily they fare:One sees a fairer cowslip than the rest,And off they shout—the foremost bidding fairTo get the prize—and earnest half and jestThe next one pops her down—and from her handHer basket falls and out her cowslips allTumble and litter there—the merry bandIn laughing friendship round about her fallTo helpen gather up the littered flowersThat she no loss may mourn. And now the windIn frolic mood among the merry hoursWakens with sudden start and tosses offSome untied bonnet on its dancing wings;Away they follow with a scream and laugh,And aye the youngest ever lags behind,Till on the deep lake's very bank it hings.They shout and catch it and then off they startAnd chase for cowslips merry as before,And each one seems so anxious at the heartAs they would even get them all and more.One climbs a molehill for a bunch of may,One stands on tiptoe for a linnet's nestAnd pricks her hand and throws her flowers awayAnd runs for plantin leaves to have it drest.So do they run abouten all the dayAnd teaze the grass-hid larks from getting rest.—Scarce give they time in their unruly hasteTo tie a shoestring that the grass unties—And thus they run the meadows' bloom to waste,Till even comes and dulls their phantasies,When one finds losses out to stifle smilesOf silken bonnet-strings—and utters sighOer garments renten clambering over stiles.Yet in the morning fresh afield they hie,Bidding the last day's troubles all goodbye;When red pied cow again their coming hears,And ere they clap the gate she tosses upHer head and hastens from the sport she fears:The old yoe calls her lamb nor cares to stoopTo crop a cowslip in their company.Thus merrily the little noisy troopAlong the grass as rude marauders hie,For ever noisy and for ever gayWhile keeping in the meadows holiday.
Death
The winds and waters are in his command,Held as a courser in the rider's hand.He lets them loose, they triumph at his will:He checks their course and all is calm and still.Life's hopes waste all to nothingness awayAs showers at night wash out the steps of day.
* * * * *
The tyrant, in his lawless power deterred,Bows before death, tame as a broken sword.One dyeth in his strength and, torn from ease,Groans in death pangs like tempests in the trees.Another from the bitterness of clayFalls calm as storms drop on an autumn day,With noiseless speed as swift as summer lightDeath slays and keeps her weapons out of sight.
The tyrants that do act the God in clayAnd for earth's glories throw the heavens away,Whose breath in power did like to thunder sear,When anger hurried on the heels of fear,Whose rage planned hosts of murders at a breath—Here in sound silence sheath their rage in death.
Their feet, that crushed down freedom to its graveAnd felt the very earth they trod a slave,How quiet here they lie in death's cold armsWithout the power to crush the feeble wormsWho spite of all the dreadful fears they madeCreep there to conquer and are not afraid.
Autumn
Syren of sullen moods and fading hues,Yet haply not incapable of joy,Sweet Autumn! I thee hailWith welcome all unfeigned;
And oft as morning from her lattice peepsTo beckon up the sun, I seek with theeTo drink the dewy breathOf fields left fragrant then,
In solitudes, where no frequented pathsBut what thy own foot makes betray thy home,Stealing obtrusive thereTo meditate thy end:
By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks,With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,Which woo the winds to play,And with them dance for joy;
And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves,On which, as wont, the flyOft battens in the sun;
Where leans the mossy willow half way oer,On which the shepherd crawls astride to throwHis angle, clear of weedsThat crowd the water's brim;
Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward,Where step by step the patient lonely boyHath cut rude flights of stairsTo climb their steepy sides;
Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise,The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed,And struggles through the weedsWith faint and sullen brawl.
These haunts I long have favoured, more as nowWith thee thus wandering, moralizing on,Stealing glad thoughts from grief,And happy, though I sigh.
Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair,And raiment shadowy of each wind's embrace,Fain would I win thine harpTo one accordant theme;
Now not inaptly craved, communing thus,Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak,While pillowed on the grass,We fondly ruminate
Oer the disordered scenes of woods and fields,Ploughed lands, thin travelled with half-hungry sheep,Pastures tracked deep with cows,Where small birds seek for seed:
Marking the cow-boy that so merry trillsHis frequent, unpremeditated song,Wooing the winds to pause,Till echo brawls again;
As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon,He roves, half indolent and self-employed,To rob the little birdsOf hips and pendent haws,
And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils,And rambling bramble-berries, pulp and sweet,Arching their prickly trailsHalf oer the narrow lane:
Noting the hedger front with stubborn faceThe dank blea wind, that whistles thinly byHis leathern garb, thorn proof,And cheek red hot with toil.
While oer the pleachy lands of mellow brown,The mower's stubbling scythe clogs to his footThe ever eking whisp,With sharp and sudden jerk,
Till into formal rows the russet shocksCrowd the blank field to thatch time-weathered barns,And hovels rude repair,Stript by disturbing winds.
See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hareScampers circuitous, with startled earsPrickt up, then squat, as byeShe brushes to the woods,
Where reeded grass, breast-high and undisturbed,Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing windsSoften her rigid fears,And lull to calm repose.
Wild sorceress! me thy restless mood delights,More than the stir of summer's crowded scenes,Where, jostled in the din,Joy palled my ear with song;
Heart-sickening for the silence that is thine,Not broken inharmoniously, as nowThat lone and vagrant beeBooms faint with wearp chime.
Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woodsIn tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath,Some sickly cankered leafLet go its hold, and die.
And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,In flirting fits of anger carps aloud,Thee urging to thine end,Sore wept by troubled skies.
And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delightTo show me visions of most gorgeous dyes,Haply forgetting nowThey but prepare thy shroud;
Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades,Improvident of waste, till every boughBurns with thy mellow touchDisorderly divine.
Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dreamDroop faintly, and so sicken for thine end,As sad the winds sink lowIn dirges for their queen;
While in the moment of their weary pause,To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing larkStarts from his shielding clod,Snatching sweet scraps of song.
Thy life is waning now, and silence triesTo mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds.As stooping low she bends,Forming with leaves thy grave;
To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods,Till parch-lipped summer pines in drought away,Then from thine ivied tranceAwake to glories new.
Summer Images
Now swarthy summer, by rude health embrowned,Precedence takes of rosy fingered spring;And laughing joy, with wild flowers pranked and crowned,A wild and giddy thing,And health robust, from every care unbound,Come on the zephyr's wing,And cheer the toiling clown.
Happy as holiday-enjoying face,Loud tongued, and "merry as a marriage bell,"Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place;And where the troubled dwell,Thy witching smiles wean them of half their cares;And from thy sunny spell,They greet joy unawares.
Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude,And mantle laced with gems of garish light,Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude,And in the world's despite,Share the rude mirth that thy own heart beguiles:If haply so I mightWin pleasure from thy smiles,
Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers,In nightly revels or in city streets;But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears,That one at leisure meetsIn the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn,Or fields, where bee-fly greetsThe ears with mellow horn.
The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe,Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks;There bees go courting every flower that's ripe,On baulks and sunny banks;And droning dragon-fly, on rude bassoon,Attempts to give God thanksIn no discordant tune.
There speckled thrush, by self-delight embued,There sings unto himself for joy's amends,And drinks the honey dew of solitude.There happiness attendsWith inbred joy until the heart oerflow,Of which the world's rude friends,Nought heeding, nothing know.
There the gay river, laughing as it goes,Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides,And to the calm of heart, in calmness showsWhat pleasure there abides,To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free:Spots solitude providesTo muse, and happy be.
There ruminating neath some pleasant bush,On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease,Where I can pillow on the yielding rush;And, acting as I please,Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie,Mark the wind-shaken trees,And cloud-betravelled sky.
And think me how some barter joy for care,And waste life's summer-health in riot rude,Of nature, nor of nature's sweets aware;Where passions vain and rudeBy calm reflection, softened are and still;And the heart's better moodFeels sick of doing ill.
There I can live, and at my leisure seekJoys far from cold restraints—not fearing pride—Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheekRude health, so long denied.Here poor integrity can sit at ease,And list self-satisfiedThe song of honey-bees;
And green lane traverse heedless where it goesNought guessing, till some sudden turn espiesRude battered finger post, that stooping showsWhere the snug mystery lies;And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,Clears up the short surprise,And shows a peeping town.
I see the wild flowers, in their summer mornOf beauty, feeding on joy's luscious hours;The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn,Agape for honey showers;And slender kingcup, burnished with the dewOf morning's early hours,Like gold yminted new;
And mark by rustic bridge, oer shallow stream,Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled,Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream;Who now, in gestures wild,Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall,Feeling self-gratified,Nor fearing human thrall:
Then thread the sunny valley laced with streams,Or forests rude, and the oershadowed brimsOf simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams,And streaks his listless limbs;Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long,Where joy's wild impulse swimsIn one continued song.
I love at early morn, from new mown swath,To see the startled frog his route pursue;To mark while, leaping oer the dripping path,His bright sides scatter dew,The early lark that, from its bustle flies,To hail his matin new;And watch him to the skies:
To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent,The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn,With earnest heed, and tremulous intent,Frail brother of the morn,That from the tiny bents and misted leavesWithdraws his timid horn,And fearful vision weaves:
Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top,Wont to be first unsealing morning's eye,Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward dropOf honey on his thigh;To see him seek morn's airy couch to sing,Until the golden skyBepaint his russet wing:
And sawning boy by tanning corn espy,With clapping noise to startle birds away,And hear him bawl to every passer byTo know the hour of day;And see the uncradled breeze, refreshed and strong,With waking blossoms play,And breathe eolian song.
I love the south-west wind, or low or loud,And not the less when sudden drops of rainMoisten my pallid cheek from ebon cloud,Threatening soft showers again,That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds,Summer's sweet breath unchain,And wake harmonious sounds.
Rich music breathes in summer's every sound;And in her harmony of varied greens,Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all aroundMuch beauty intervenes,Filling with harmony the ear and eye;While oer the mingling scenesFar spreads the laughing sky.
And wind-enamoured aspin—mark the leavesTurn up their silver lining to the sun,And list! the brustling noise, that oft deceives,And makes the sheep-boy run;The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers,He thinks the rain begun,And hastes to sheltering bowers.
But now the evening curdles dank and grey,Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed;And moping owls, to close the lids of day,On drowsy wing proceed;While chickering crickets, tremulous and long,Light's farewell inly heed,And give it parting song.
The pranking bat its nighty circlet makes;The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anewOer meadows dew-besprent; and beetle wakesEnquiries ever new,Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain,As wanting to pursueHis homeward path again.
Hark to the melody of distant bellsThat on the wind with pleasing hum reboundsBy fitful starts, then musically swellsOer the dun stilly grounds;While on the meadow bridge the pausing boyListens the mellow sounds,And hums in vacant joy.
Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles roundHis evening faggot, and with every strideHis leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound.Till silly sheep besideHis path start tremulous, and once againLook back dissatisfied,Then scour the dewy plain.
How sweet the soothing calm that smoothly stillsOer the heart's every sense its opiate dews,In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills!That softens and subdues,With gentle quiet's bland and sober train,Which dreamy eve renewsIn many a mellow strain.
I love to walk the fields, they are to meA legacy no evil can destroy;They, like a spell, set every rapture freeThat cheered me when a boy.Play—pastime—all time's blotting pen concealed,Comes like a new-born joy,To greet me in the field.
For nature's objects ever harmonizeWith emulous taste, that vulgar deed annoys;It loves in quiet moods to sympathize,And meet vibrating joysOer nature's pleasant things; nor will it deemPastime the muse employsA vain obtrusive theme.
A World for Love
Oh, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care;Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair;Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear,That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near.
And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe,How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go;Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a grassy bladeHad eer been bent by Trouble's feet, and Love thy pillow made.
For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime,And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty's happy clime;And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood,And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good.
And there to make a cot unknown to any care and pain,And there to shut the door alone on singing wind and rain—Far, far away from all the world, more rude than rain or wind,Oh, who could wish a sweeter home, or better place to find?
Than thus to love and live with thee, thou beautiful delight!Than thus to live and love with thee the summer day and night!The Earth itself, where thou hadst rest, would surely smile to seeHerself grow Eden once again, possest of Love and thee.
Love
Love, though it is not chill and cold,But burning like eternal fire,Is yet not of approaches bold,Which gay dramatic tastes admire.Oh timid love, more fond than free,In daring song is ill pourtrayed,Where, as in war, the devoteeBy valour wins each captive maid;—
Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee,As they could tell each other's mind;Where ruby lips are kissed as free,As flowers are by the summer wind.No! gentle love, that timid dream,With hopes and fears at foil and play,Works like a skiff against the stream,And thinking most finds least to say.
It lives in blushes and in sighs,In hopes for which no words are found;Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes,The tongue is left without a sound.The pert and forward things that dareTheir talk in every maiden's ear,Feel no more than their shadows there—Mere things of form, with nought of fear.
True passion, that so burns to plead,Is timid as the dove's disguise;Tis for the murder-aiming gleedTo dart at every thing that flies.True love, it is no daring bird,But like the little timid wren,That in the new-leaved thorns of springShrinks farther from the sight of men.
The idol of his musing mind,The worship of his lonely hour,Love woos her in the summer wind,And tells her name to every flower;But in her sight, no open wordEscapes, his fondness to declare;The sighs by beauty's magic stirredAre all that speak his passion there.
Nature's Hymn to the Deity
All nature owns with one accordThe great and universal Lord:The sun proclaims him through the day,The moon when daylight drops away,The very darkness smiles to wearThe stars that show us God is there,On moonlight seas soft gleams the skyAnd "God is with us" waves reply.
Winds breathe from God's abode "we come,"Storms louder own God is their home,And thunder yet with louder call,Sounds "God is mightiest over all";Till earth right loath the proof to missEchoes triumphantly "He is,"And air and ocean makes reply,God reigns on earth, in air and sky.
All nature owns with one accordThe great and universal Lord:Insect and bird and tree and flower—The witnesses of every hour—Are pregnant with his prophesyAnd "God is with us" all reply.The first link in the mighty planIs still—and all upbraideth man.
Decay
O Poesy is on the wane,For Fancy's visions all unfitting;I hardly know her face again,Nature herself seems on the flitting.The fields grow old and common things,The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowing;And spots, where still a beauty clings,Are sighing "going! all a-going!"O Poesy is on the wane,I hardly know her face again.
The bank with brambles overspread,And little molehills round about it,Was more to me than laurel shades,With paths of gravel finely clouted;And streaking here and streaking there,Through shaven grass and many a border,With rutty lanes had no compare,And heaths were in a richer order.But Poesy is on the wane,I hardly know her face again.
I sat beside the pasture stream,When Beauty's self was sitting by,The fields did more than Eden seemNor could I tell the reason why.I often drank when not adryTo pledge her health in draughts divine;Smiles made it nectar from the sky,Love turned een water into wine.O Poesy is on the wane,I cannot find her face again.
The sun those mornings used to find,Its clouds were other-country mountains,And heaven looked downward on the mind,Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains.Those heavens are gone, the mountains greyTurned mist—the sun, a homeless ranger,Pursues alone his naked way,Unnoticed like a very stranger.O Poesy is on the wane,Nor love nor joy is mine again.
Love's sun went down without a frown,For very joy it used to grieve us;I often think the West is gone,Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us.The stream it is a common stream,Where we on Sundays used to ramble,The sky hangs oer a broken dream,The bramble's dwindled to a bramble!O Poesy is on the wane,I cannot find her haunts again.
Mere withered stalks and fading trees,And pastures spread with hills and rushes,Are all my fading vision sees;Gone, gone are rapture's flooding gushes!When mushrooms they were fairy bowers,Their marble pillars overswelling,And Danger paused to pluck the flowersThat in their swarthy rings were dwelling.Yes, Poesy is on the wane,Nor joy nor fear is mine again.
Aye, Poesy hath passed away,And Fancy's visions undeceive us;The night hath ta'en the place of day,And why should passing shadows grieve us?I thought the flowers upon the hillsWere flowers from Adam's open gardens;But I have had my summer thrills,And I have had my heart's rewardings.So Poesy is on the wane,I hardly know her face again.
And Friendship it hath burned away,Like to a very ember cooling,A make-believe on April dayThat sent the simple heart a-fooling;Mere jesting in an earnest way,Deceiving on and still deceiving;And Hope is but a fancy-play,And Joy the art of true believing;For Poesy is on the wane,O could I feel her faith again!