NOWSummer is in flower, and Nature’s humIs never silent round her bounteous bloom;Insects, as small as dust, have never doneWith glitt’ring dance, and reeling in the sun;And green wood-fly, and blossom-haunting bee,Are never weary of their melody.Round field and hedge, flowers in full glory twine,Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak’d woodbine,That lift athirst their slender throated flowers,Agape for dew-fall, and for honey showers;These o’er each bush in sweet disorder run,And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.The mottled spider, at eve’s leisure, weavesHis webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves,Which ev’ry morning meet the poet’s eye,Like fairies’ dew-wet dresses hung to dry.The wheat swells into ear, and hides belowThe May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show,Leaving, a school-boy’s height, in snugger rest,The leveret’s seat, and lark, and partridge nest.The mowers now bend o’er the beaded grass,Where oft the gipsy’s hungry journeying assWill turn his wishes from the meadow paths,List’ning the rustle of the falling swaths.The ploughman sweats along the fallow valesAnd down the sun-crack’d furrow slowly trails;Oft seeking, when athirst, the brook’s supply,Where, brushing eagerly the bushes byFor coolest water, he disturbs the restOf ring-dove, brooding o’er its idle nest.The shepherd’s leisure hours are over now;No more he loiters ’neath the hedge-row bough,On shadow-pillowed banks and lolling stile;The wilds must lose their summer friend awhile.With whistle, barking dogs, and chiding scold,He drives the bleating sheep from fallow foldTo wash-pools, where the willow shadows lean,Dashing them in, their stained coats to clean,Then, on the sunny sward, when dry again,He brings them homeward to the clipping pen,Of hurdles, form’d where elm or sycamoreShut out the sun—or to some threshing-floor.There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale,He lightens annual toil, while merry aleGoes round, and glads some old man’s heart to praiseThe threadbare customs of his early days:How the high bowl was in the middle setAt breakfast time, when clippers yearly met,Fill’d full of furmety, where dainty swumThe streaking sugar and the spotting plum.The maids could never to the table bringThe bowl, without one rising from the ringTo lend a hand; who, if ’twere ta’en amiss,Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss.The large stone pitcher in its homely trimAnd clouded pint-horn with its copper rim,Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits highHealths of the best the cellar could supply;While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes,Songs that were pictures of the good old times.Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail,Till toiling shears gain ground upon the tale,And break it off,—for now the timid sheep,His fleece shorn off, starts with a fearful leap,Shaking his naked skin with wond’ring joys,While others are brought in by sturdy boys.Though fashion’s haughty frown hath thrown asideHalf the old forms simplicity supplied,Yet there are some pride’s winter deigns to spare,Left like green ivy when the trees are bare.And now, when shearing of the flocks is doneSome ancient customs, mix’d with harmless fun,Crown the swain’s merry toils. The timid maid,Pleased to be praised, and yet of praise afraid,Seeks the best flowers; not those of woods and fields,But such as every farmer’s garden yields—Fine cabbage-roses, painted like her face;The shining pansy, trimm’d with golden lace;The tall topp’d larkheels, feather’d thick with flowers;The woodbine, climbing o’er the door in bowers;The London tufts, of many a mottled hue;The pale pink pea, and monkshood darkly blue;The white and purple gilliflowers, that stayLing’ring, in blossom, summer half away;The single blood-walls, of a luscious smell,Old-fashion’d flowers which housewives love so well;The columbine, stone-blue, or deep night-brown,Their honeycomb-like blossoms hanging down,Each cottage-garden’s fond adopted child,Though heaths still claim them, where they yet grow wild;With marjoram knots, sweet-brier, and ribbon-grass,And lavender, the choice of ev’ry lass,And sprigs of lad’s-love—all familiar names,Which every garden through the village claims.These the maid gathers with a coy delight,And ties them up, in readiness for night;Then gives to ev’ry swain, ’tween love and shame,Her “clipping-posies” as his yearly claim.He rises, to obtain the custom’d kiss:—With stifled smiles, half hankering after bliss,She shrinks away, and blushing, calls it rude;Yet turns to smile, and hopes to be pursued;While one, to whom the hint may be applied,Follows to gain it, and is not denied.The rest the loud laugh raise, to make it known,—She blushes silent, and will not disown!Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways,Keep up a shadow still of former days;But the old beechen bowl, that once suppliedThe feast of furmety, is thrown aside;And the old freedom that was living then,When masters made them merry with their men;When all their coats alike were russet brown,And his rude speech was vulgar as their own—All this is past, and soon will pass awayThe time-torn remnant of the holiday.
NOWSummer is in flower, and Nature’s humIs never silent round her bounteous bloom;Insects, as small as dust, have never doneWith glitt’ring dance, and reeling in the sun;And green wood-fly, and blossom-haunting bee,Are never weary of their melody.Round field and hedge, flowers in full glory twine,Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak’d woodbine,That lift athirst their slender throated flowers,Agape for dew-fall, and for honey showers;These o’er each bush in sweet disorder run,And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.The mottled spider, at eve’s leisure, weavesHis webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves,Which ev’ry morning meet the poet’s eye,Like fairies’ dew-wet dresses hung to dry.The wheat swells into ear, and hides belowThe May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show,Leaving, a school-boy’s height, in snugger rest,The leveret’s seat, and lark, and partridge nest.The mowers now bend o’er the beaded grass,Where oft the gipsy’s hungry journeying assWill turn his wishes from the meadow paths,List’ning the rustle of the falling swaths.The ploughman sweats along the fallow valesAnd down the sun-crack’d furrow slowly trails;Oft seeking, when athirst, the brook’s supply,Where, brushing eagerly the bushes byFor coolest water, he disturbs the restOf ring-dove, brooding o’er its idle nest.The shepherd’s leisure hours are over now;No more he loiters ’neath the hedge-row bough,On shadow-pillowed banks and lolling stile;The wilds must lose their summer friend awhile.With whistle, barking dogs, and chiding scold,He drives the bleating sheep from fallow foldTo wash-pools, where the willow shadows lean,Dashing them in, their stained coats to clean,Then, on the sunny sward, when dry again,He brings them homeward to the clipping pen,Of hurdles, form’d where elm or sycamoreShut out the sun—or to some threshing-floor.There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale,He lightens annual toil, while merry aleGoes round, and glads some old man’s heart to praiseThe threadbare customs of his early days:How the high bowl was in the middle setAt breakfast time, when clippers yearly met,Fill’d full of furmety, where dainty swumThe streaking sugar and the spotting plum.The maids could never to the table bringThe bowl, without one rising from the ringTo lend a hand; who, if ’twere ta’en amiss,Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss.The large stone pitcher in its homely trimAnd clouded pint-horn with its copper rim,Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits highHealths of the best the cellar could supply;While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes,Songs that were pictures of the good old times.Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail,Till toiling shears gain ground upon the tale,And break it off,—for now the timid sheep,His fleece shorn off, starts with a fearful leap,Shaking his naked skin with wond’ring joys,While others are brought in by sturdy boys.Though fashion’s haughty frown hath thrown asideHalf the old forms simplicity supplied,Yet there are some pride’s winter deigns to spare,Left like green ivy when the trees are bare.And now, when shearing of the flocks is doneSome ancient customs, mix’d with harmless fun,Crown the swain’s merry toils. The timid maid,Pleased to be praised, and yet of praise afraid,Seeks the best flowers; not those of woods and fields,But such as every farmer’s garden yields—Fine cabbage-roses, painted like her face;The shining pansy, trimm’d with golden lace;The tall topp’d larkheels, feather’d thick with flowers;The woodbine, climbing o’er the door in bowers;The London tufts, of many a mottled hue;The pale pink pea, and monkshood darkly blue;The white and purple gilliflowers, that stayLing’ring, in blossom, summer half away;The single blood-walls, of a luscious smell,Old-fashion’d flowers which housewives love so well;The columbine, stone-blue, or deep night-brown,Their honeycomb-like blossoms hanging down,Each cottage-garden’s fond adopted child,Though heaths still claim them, where they yet grow wild;With marjoram knots, sweet-brier, and ribbon-grass,And lavender, the choice of ev’ry lass,And sprigs of lad’s-love—all familiar names,Which every garden through the village claims.These the maid gathers with a coy delight,And ties them up, in readiness for night;Then gives to ev’ry swain, ’tween love and shame,Her “clipping-posies” as his yearly claim.He rises, to obtain the custom’d kiss:—With stifled smiles, half hankering after bliss,She shrinks away, and blushing, calls it rude;Yet turns to smile, and hopes to be pursued;While one, to whom the hint may be applied,Follows to gain it, and is not denied.The rest the loud laugh raise, to make it known,—She blushes silent, and will not disown!Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways,Keep up a shadow still of former days;But the old beechen bowl, that once suppliedThe feast of furmety, is thrown aside;And the old freedom that was living then,When masters made them merry with their men;When all their coats alike were russet brown,And his rude speech was vulgar as their own—All this is past, and soon will pass awayThe time-torn remnant of the holiday.
NOWSummer is in flower, and Nature’s humIs never silent round her bounteous bloom;Insects, as small as dust, have never doneWith glitt’ring dance, and reeling in the sun;And green wood-fly, and blossom-haunting bee,Are never weary of their melody.Round field and hedge, flowers in full glory twine,Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak’d woodbine,That lift athirst their slender throated flowers,Agape for dew-fall, and for honey showers;These o’er each bush in sweet disorder run,And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.The mottled spider, at eve’s leisure, weavesHis webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves,Which ev’ry morning meet the poet’s eye,Like fairies’ dew-wet dresses hung to dry.The wheat swells into ear, and hides belowThe May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show,Leaving, a school-boy’s height, in snugger rest,The leveret’s seat, and lark, and partridge nest.The mowers now bend o’er the beaded grass,Where oft the gipsy’s hungry journeying assWill turn his wishes from the meadow paths,List’ning the rustle of the falling swaths.The ploughman sweats along the fallow valesAnd down the sun-crack’d furrow slowly trails;Oft seeking, when athirst, the brook’s supply,Where, brushing eagerly the bushes byFor coolest water, he disturbs the restOf ring-dove, brooding o’er its idle nest.The shepherd’s leisure hours are over now;No more he loiters ’neath the hedge-row bough,On shadow-pillowed banks and lolling stile;The wilds must lose their summer friend awhile.With whistle, barking dogs, and chiding scold,He drives the bleating sheep from fallow foldTo wash-pools, where the willow shadows lean,Dashing them in, their stained coats to clean,Then, on the sunny sward, when dry again,He brings them homeward to the clipping pen,Of hurdles, form’d where elm or sycamoreShut out the sun—or to some threshing-floor.There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale,He lightens annual toil, while merry aleGoes round, and glads some old man’s heart to praiseThe threadbare customs of his early days:How the high bowl was in the middle setAt breakfast time, when clippers yearly met,Fill’d full of furmety, where dainty swumThe streaking sugar and the spotting plum.The maids could never to the table bringThe bowl, without one rising from the ringTo lend a hand; who, if ’twere ta’en amiss,Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss.The large stone pitcher in its homely trimAnd clouded pint-horn with its copper rim,Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits highHealths of the best the cellar could supply;While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes,Songs that were pictures of the good old times.Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail,Till toiling shears gain ground upon the tale,And break it off,—for now the timid sheep,His fleece shorn off, starts with a fearful leap,Shaking his naked skin with wond’ring joys,While others are brought in by sturdy boys.Though fashion’s haughty frown hath thrown asideHalf the old forms simplicity supplied,Yet there are some pride’s winter deigns to spare,Left like green ivy when the trees are bare.And now, when shearing of the flocks is doneSome ancient customs, mix’d with harmless fun,Crown the swain’s merry toils. The timid maid,Pleased to be praised, and yet of praise afraid,Seeks the best flowers; not those of woods and fields,But such as every farmer’s garden yields—Fine cabbage-roses, painted like her face;The shining pansy, trimm’d with golden lace;The tall topp’d larkheels, feather’d thick with flowers;The woodbine, climbing o’er the door in bowers;The London tufts, of many a mottled hue;The pale pink pea, and monkshood darkly blue;The white and purple gilliflowers, that stayLing’ring, in blossom, summer half away;The single blood-walls, of a luscious smell,Old-fashion’d flowers which housewives love so well;The columbine, stone-blue, or deep night-brown,Their honeycomb-like blossoms hanging down,Each cottage-garden’s fond adopted child,Though heaths still claim them, where they yet grow wild;With marjoram knots, sweet-brier, and ribbon-grass,And lavender, the choice of ev’ry lass,And sprigs of lad’s-love—all familiar names,Which every garden through the village claims.These the maid gathers with a coy delight,And ties them up, in readiness for night;Then gives to ev’ry swain, ’tween love and shame,Her “clipping-posies” as his yearly claim.He rises, to obtain the custom’d kiss:—With stifled smiles, half hankering after bliss,She shrinks away, and blushing, calls it rude;Yet turns to smile, and hopes to be pursued;While one, to whom the hint may be applied,Follows to gain it, and is not denied.The rest the loud laugh raise, to make it known,—She blushes silent, and will not disown!Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways,Keep up a shadow still of former days;But the old beechen bowl, that once suppliedThe feast of furmety, is thrown aside;And the old freedom that was living then,When masters made them merry with their men;When all their coats alike were russet brown,And his rude speech was vulgar as their own—All this is past, and soon will pass awayThe time-torn remnant of the holiday.
GLADChristmas comes, and every hearthMakes room to give him welcome now,E’en want will dry its tears in mirth,And crown him with a holly bough;Though tramping ’neath a winter sky,O’er snowy paths and rimy stiles,The housewife sets her spinning byTo bid him welcome with her smiles.Each house is swept the day before,And windows stuck with evergreens,The snow is besom’d from the door,And comfort crowns the cottage scenes.Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks,And yew and box, with berries small,These deck the unused candlesticks,And pictures hanging by the wall.Neighbours resume their annual cheer,Wishing, with smiles and spirits high,Glad Christmas and a happy year,To every morning passer-by;Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go,Accompanied with favour’d swain;And children pace the crumping snowTo taste their granny’s cake again.The shepherd, now no more afraid,Since custom doth the chance bestow,Starts up to kiss the giggling maidBeneath the branch of mistletoeThat ’neath each cottage beam is seen,With pearl-like berries shining gay;The shadow still of what hath been,Which fashion yearly fades away.The singing wates, a merry throng,At early morn, with simple skill,Yet imitate the angel’s song,And chant their Christmas ditty still;And ’mid the storm that dies and swellsBy fits—in hummings softly stealsThe music of the village bells,Ringing round their merry peals.When this is past, a merry crew,Bedeck’d in masks and ribbons gay,The “Morris-dance,” their sports renew,And act their winter evening play.The clown turn’d king, for penny-praise,Storms with the actor’s strut and swell;And Harlequin, a laugh to raise,Wears his hunch-back and tinkling bell.And oft for pence and spicy ale,With winter nosegays pinn’d before,The wassail-singer tells her tale,And drawls her Christmas carols o’er.While ’prentice boy, with ruddy face,And rime-bepowder’d, dancing locks,From door to door with happy pace,Runs round to claim his “Christmas box.”The block upon the fire is put,To sanction custom’s old desires;And many a fagot’s bands are cut,For the old farmers’ Christmas fires;Where loud-tongued Gladness joins the throng,And Winter meets the warmth of May,Till feeling soon the heat too strong,He rubs his shins, and draws away.While snows the window-panes bedim,The fire curls up a sunny charm,Where, creaming o’er the pitcher’s rim,The flowering ale is set to warm;Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,Sits there, its pleasures to impartAnd children, ’tween their parent’s knees,Sing scraps of carols o’er by heart.And some, to view the winter weathers,Climb up the window-seat with glee.Likening the snow to falling feathers,In Fancy’s infant ecstasy;Laughing, with superstitious love,O’er visions wild that youth supplies,Of people pulling geese above,And keeping Christmas in the skies.As tho’ the homestead trees were drest,In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves;As tho’ the sun-dried martin’s nest,Instead of i’cles hung the eaves;The children hail the happy day—As if the snow were April’s grass,And pleas’d, as ’neath the warmth of May,Sport o’er the water froze to glass.Thou day of happy sound and mirth,That long with childish memory stays,How blest around the cottage hearthI met thee in my younger days!Harping, with rapture’s dreaming joys,On presents which thy coming found,The welcome sight of little toys,The Christmas gifts of cousins round.The wooden horse with arching head,Drawn upon wheels around the room;The gilded coach of gingerbread,And many-colour’d sugar plum;Gilt cover’d books for pictures sought,Or stories childhood loves to tell,With many an urgent promise bought,To get to-morrow’s lesson well.And many a thing, a minute’s sport,Left broken on the sanded floor,When we would leave our play, and courtOur parent’s promises for more.Tho’ manhood bids such raptures die,And throws such toys aside as vain,Yet memory loves to turn her eye,And count past pleasures o’er again.Around the glowing hearth at night,The harmless laugh and winter taleGo round, while parting friends delightTo toast each other o’er their ale;The cotter oft with quiet zealWill musing o’er his Bible lean;While in the dark the lovers stealTo kiss and toy behind the screen.Old customs! Oh! I love the sound:However simple they may be:Whate’er with time have sanction found,Is welcome, and is dear to me.Pride grows above simplicity,And spurns them from her haughty mind,And soon the poet’s song will beThe only refuge they can find.
GLADChristmas comes, and every hearthMakes room to give him welcome now,E’en want will dry its tears in mirth,And crown him with a holly bough;Though tramping ’neath a winter sky,O’er snowy paths and rimy stiles,The housewife sets her spinning byTo bid him welcome with her smiles.Each house is swept the day before,And windows stuck with evergreens,The snow is besom’d from the door,And comfort crowns the cottage scenes.Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks,And yew and box, with berries small,These deck the unused candlesticks,And pictures hanging by the wall.Neighbours resume their annual cheer,Wishing, with smiles and spirits high,Glad Christmas and a happy year,To every morning passer-by;Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go,Accompanied with favour’d swain;And children pace the crumping snowTo taste their granny’s cake again.The shepherd, now no more afraid,Since custom doth the chance bestow,Starts up to kiss the giggling maidBeneath the branch of mistletoeThat ’neath each cottage beam is seen,With pearl-like berries shining gay;The shadow still of what hath been,Which fashion yearly fades away.The singing wates, a merry throng,At early morn, with simple skill,Yet imitate the angel’s song,And chant their Christmas ditty still;And ’mid the storm that dies and swellsBy fits—in hummings softly stealsThe music of the village bells,Ringing round their merry peals.When this is past, a merry crew,Bedeck’d in masks and ribbons gay,The “Morris-dance,” their sports renew,And act their winter evening play.The clown turn’d king, for penny-praise,Storms with the actor’s strut and swell;And Harlequin, a laugh to raise,Wears his hunch-back and tinkling bell.And oft for pence and spicy ale,With winter nosegays pinn’d before,The wassail-singer tells her tale,And drawls her Christmas carols o’er.While ’prentice boy, with ruddy face,And rime-bepowder’d, dancing locks,From door to door with happy pace,Runs round to claim his “Christmas box.”The block upon the fire is put,To sanction custom’s old desires;And many a fagot’s bands are cut,For the old farmers’ Christmas fires;Where loud-tongued Gladness joins the throng,And Winter meets the warmth of May,Till feeling soon the heat too strong,He rubs his shins, and draws away.While snows the window-panes bedim,The fire curls up a sunny charm,Where, creaming o’er the pitcher’s rim,The flowering ale is set to warm;Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,Sits there, its pleasures to impartAnd children, ’tween their parent’s knees,Sing scraps of carols o’er by heart.And some, to view the winter weathers,Climb up the window-seat with glee.Likening the snow to falling feathers,In Fancy’s infant ecstasy;Laughing, with superstitious love,O’er visions wild that youth supplies,Of people pulling geese above,And keeping Christmas in the skies.As tho’ the homestead trees were drest,In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves;As tho’ the sun-dried martin’s nest,Instead of i’cles hung the eaves;The children hail the happy day—As if the snow were April’s grass,And pleas’d, as ’neath the warmth of May,Sport o’er the water froze to glass.Thou day of happy sound and mirth,That long with childish memory stays,How blest around the cottage hearthI met thee in my younger days!Harping, with rapture’s dreaming joys,On presents which thy coming found,The welcome sight of little toys,The Christmas gifts of cousins round.The wooden horse with arching head,Drawn upon wheels around the room;The gilded coach of gingerbread,And many-colour’d sugar plum;Gilt cover’d books for pictures sought,Or stories childhood loves to tell,With many an urgent promise bought,To get to-morrow’s lesson well.And many a thing, a minute’s sport,Left broken on the sanded floor,When we would leave our play, and courtOur parent’s promises for more.Tho’ manhood bids such raptures die,And throws such toys aside as vain,Yet memory loves to turn her eye,And count past pleasures o’er again.Around the glowing hearth at night,The harmless laugh and winter taleGo round, while parting friends delightTo toast each other o’er their ale;The cotter oft with quiet zealWill musing o’er his Bible lean;While in the dark the lovers stealTo kiss and toy behind the screen.Old customs! Oh! I love the sound:However simple they may be:Whate’er with time have sanction found,Is welcome, and is dear to me.Pride grows above simplicity,And spurns them from her haughty mind,And soon the poet’s song will beThe only refuge they can find.
GLADChristmas comes, and every hearthMakes room to give him welcome now,E’en want will dry its tears in mirth,And crown him with a holly bough;Though tramping ’neath a winter sky,O’er snowy paths and rimy stiles,The housewife sets her spinning byTo bid him welcome with her smiles.
Each house is swept the day before,And windows stuck with evergreens,The snow is besom’d from the door,And comfort crowns the cottage scenes.Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks,And yew and box, with berries small,These deck the unused candlesticks,And pictures hanging by the wall.
Neighbours resume their annual cheer,Wishing, with smiles and spirits high,Glad Christmas and a happy year,To every morning passer-by;Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go,Accompanied with favour’d swain;And children pace the crumping snowTo taste their granny’s cake again.
The shepherd, now no more afraid,Since custom doth the chance bestow,Starts up to kiss the giggling maidBeneath the branch of mistletoeThat ’neath each cottage beam is seen,With pearl-like berries shining gay;The shadow still of what hath been,Which fashion yearly fades away.
The singing wates, a merry throng,At early morn, with simple skill,Yet imitate the angel’s song,And chant their Christmas ditty still;And ’mid the storm that dies and swellsBy fits—in hummings softly stealsThe music of the village bells,Ringing round their merry peals.
When this is past, a merry crew,Bedeck’d in masks and ribbons gay,The “Morris-dance,” their sports renew,And act their winter evening play.The clown turn’d king, for penny-praise,Storms with the actor’s strut and swell;And Harlequin, a laugh to raise,Wears his hunch-back and tinkling bell.
And oft for pence and spicy ale,With winter nosegays pinn’d before,The wassail-singer tells her tale,And drawls her Christmas carols o’er.While ’prentice boy, with ruddy face,And rime-bepowder’d, dancing locks,From door to door with happy pace,Runs round to claim his “Christmas box.”
The block upon the fire is put,To sanction custom’s old desires;And many a fagot’s bands are cut,For the old farmers’ Christmas fires;Where loud-tongued Gladness joins the throng,And Winter meets the warmth of May,Till feeling soon the heat too strong,He rubs his shins, and draws away.
While snows the window-panes bedim,The fire curls up a sunny charm,Where, creaming o’er the pitcher’s rim,The flowering ale is set to warm;Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,Sits there, its pleasures to impartAnd children, ’tween their parent’s knees,Sing scraps of carols o’er by heart.
And some, to view the winter weathers,Climb up the window-seat with glee.Likening the snow to falling feathers,In Fancy’s infant ecstasy;Laughing, with superstitious love,O’er visions wild that youth supplies,Of people pulling geese above,And keeping Christmas in the skies.
As tho’ the homestead trees were drest,In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves;As tho’ the sun-dried martin’s nest,Instead of i’cles hung the eaves;The children hail the happy day—As if the snow were April’s grass,And pleas’d, as ’neath the warmth of May,Sport o’er the water froze to glass.
Thou day of happy sound and mirth,That long with childish memory stays,How blest around the cottage hearthI met thee in my younger days!Harping, with rapture’s dreaming joys,On presents which thy coming found,The welcome sight of little toys,The Christmas gifts of cousins round.
The wooden horse with arching head,Drawn upon wheels around the room;The gilded coach of gingerbread,And many-colour’d sugar plum;Gilt cover’d books for pictures sought,Or stories childhood loves to tell,With many an urgent promise bought,To get to-morrow’s lesson well.
And many a thing, a minute’s sport,Left broken on the sanded floor,When we would leave our play, and courtOur parent’s promises for more.Tho’ manhood bids such raptures die,And throws such toys aside as vain,Yet memory loves to turn her eye,And count past pleasures o’er again.
Around the glowing hearth at night,The harmless laugh and winter taleGo round, while parting friends delightTo toast each other o’er their ale;The cotter oft with quiet zealWill musing o’er his Bible lean;While in the dark the lovers stealTo kiss and toy behind the screen.
Old customs! Oh! I love the sound:However simple they may be:Whate’er with time have sanction found,Is welcome, and is dear to me.Pride grows above simplicity,And spurns them from her haughty mind,And soon the poet’s song will beThe only refuge they can find.
NOWonce again, thou lovely Spring,Thy sight the day beguiles;For fresher greens the fairy ring,The daisy brighter smiles:The winds, that late with chiding voiceWould fain thy stay prolong,Relent, while little birds rejoice,And mingle into song.Undaunted maiden, thou shalt findThy home in gleaming woods,Thy mantle in the southern wind,Thy wreath in swelling buds:And may thy mantle wrap thee round,And hopes still warm and thrive,And dews with every morn be foundTo keep thy wreath alive.May coming suns, that tempt thy flowers,Smile on as they begin;And gentle be succeeding hoursAs those that bring thee in;Full lovely are thy dappled skies,Pearl’d round with promised showers,And sweet thy blossoms round thee riseTo meet the sunny hours.The primrose bud, thy early pledge,Sprouts ’neath each woodland tree,And violets under every hedgePrepare a seat for thee:As maids just meeting woman’s bloomFeel love’s delicious strife,So Nature warms to find thee come,And kindles into life.Through hedge-row leaves, in drifted heapsLeft by the stormy blast,The little hopeful blossom peeps,And tells of winter past:A few leaves flutter from the woods,That hung the season through,Leaving their place for swelling budsTo spread their leaves anew.’Mong withered grass upon the plain,That lent the blast a voice,The tender green appears again,And creeping things rejoice;Each warm bank shines with early flowers,Where oft a lonely beeDrones, venturing on in sunny hours,Its humming song to thee.The birds are busy on the wing,The fish play in the stream;And many a hasty curdled ringCrimps round the leaping bream;The buds unfold to leaves apace,Along the hedge-row bowers,And many a child with rosy faceIs seeking after flowers.The soft wind fans the violet blue,Its opening sweets to share,And infant breezes, waked anew,Play in the maidens’ hair—Maidens that freshen with thy flowers,To charm the gentle swain,And dally, in their milking hours,With lovers’ vows again.Bright dews illume the grassy plain,Sweet messengers of morn,And drops hang glistening after rainLike gems on every thorn;What though the grass is moist and rankWhere dews fall from the tree,The creeping sun smiles on the bankAnd warms a seat for thee.The eager morning earlier wakesTo glad thy fond desires,And oft its rosy bed forsakesEre night’s pale moon retires;Sweet shalt thou feel the morning sunTo warm thy dewy breast,And chase the chill mist’s purple dunThat lingers in the west.Her dresses Nature gladly trims,To hail thee as her queen,And soon shall fold thy lovely limbsIn modest garb of green:Each day shall like a lover comeSome gifts with thee to share,And swarms of flowers shall quickly bloomTo dress thy golden hair.All life and beauty warm and smileThy lovely face to see,And many a hopeful hour beguileIn seeking joys with thee;The sweetest hours that ever comeAre those which thou dost bring,And sure the fairest flowers that bloomAre partners of the Spring.I’ve met the Winter’s biting breathIn nature’s wild retreat,When Silence listens as in death,And thought its wildness sweet;And I have loved the Winter’s calmWhen frost has left the plain,When suns that morning waken’d warmLeft eve to freeze again.I’ve heard in Autumn’s early reignHer first, her gentlest song;I’ve mark’d her change o’er wood and plain,And wish’d her reign were long;Till winds like armies, gather’d round,And stripp’d her colour’d woods,And storms urged on, with thunder-soundTheir desolating floods.And Summer’s endless stretch of green,Spread over plain and tree,Sweet solace to my eyes has been,As it to all must be;Long I have stood his burning heat,And breathed the sultry day,And walk’d and toil’d with weary feet,Nor wish’d his pride away.But oft I’ve watch’d the greening budsBrush’d by the linnet’s wing,When, like a child, the gladden’d woodsFirst lisp the voice of Spring;When flowers, like dreams, peep every day,Reminding what they bring;I’ve watch’d them, and am warn’d to payA preference to Spring.
NOWonce again, thou lovely Spring,Thy sight the day beguiles;For fresher greens the fairy ring,The daisy brighter smiles:The winds, that late with chiding voiceWould fain thy stay prolong,Relent, while little birds rejoice,And mingle into song.Undaunted maiden, thou shalt findThy home in gleaming woods,Thy mantle in the southern wind,Thy wreath in swelling buds:And may thy mantle wrap thee round,And hopes still warm and thrive,And dews with every morn be foundTo keep thy wreath alive.May coming suns, that tempt thy flowers,Smile on as they begin;And gentle be succeeding hoursAs those that bring thee in;Full lovely are thy dappled skies,Pearl’d round with promised showers,And sweet thy blossoms round thee riseTo meet the sunny hours.The primrose bud, thy early pledge,Sprouts ’neath each woodland tree,And violets under every hedgePrepare a seat for thee:As maids just meeting woman’s bloomFeel love’s delicious strife,So Nature warms to find thee come,And kindles into life.Through hedge-row leaves, in drifted heapsLeft by the stormy blast,The little hopeful blossom peeps,And tells of winter past:A few leaves flutter from the woods,That hung the season through,Leaving their place for swelling budsTo spread their leaves anew.’Mong withered grass upon the plain,That lent the blast a voice,The tender green appears again,And creeping things rejoice;Each warm bank shines with early flowers,Where oft a lonely beeDrones, venturing on in sunny hours,Its humming song to thee.The birds are busy on the wing,The fish play in the stream;And many a hasty curdled ringCrimps round the leaping bream;The buds unfold to leaves apace,Along the hedge-row bowers,And many a child with rosy faceIs seeking after flowers.The soft wind fans the violet blue,Its opening sweets to share,And infant breezes, waked anew,Play in the maidens’ hair—Maidens that freshen with thy flowers,To charm the gentle swain,And dally, in their milking hours,With lovers’ vows again.Bright dews illume the grassy plain,Sweet messengers of morn,And drops hang glistening after rainLike gems on every thorn;What though the grass is moist and rankWhere dews fall from the tree,The creeping sun smiles on the bankAnd warms a seat for thee.The eager morning earlier wakesTo glad thy fond desires,And oft its rosy bed forsakesEre night’s pale moon retires;Sweet shalt thou feel the morning sunTo warm thy dewy breast,And chase the chill mist’s purple dunThat lingers in the west.Her dresses Nature gladly trims,To hail thee as her queen,And soon shall fold thy lovely limbsIn modest garb of green:Each day shall like a lover comeSome gifts with thee to share,And swarms of flowers shall quickly bloomTo dress thy golden hair.All life and beauty warm and smileThy lovely face to see,And many a hopeful hour beguileIn seeking joys with thee;The sweetest hours that ever comeAre those which thou dost bring,And sure the fairest flowers that bloomAre partners of the Spring.I’ve met the Winter’s biting breathIn nature’s wild retreat,When Silence listens as in death,And thought its wildness sweet;And I have loved the Winter’s calmWhen frost has left the plain,When suns that morning waken’d warmLeft eve to freeze again.I’ve heard in Autumn’s early reignHer first, her gentlest song;I’ve mark’d her change o’er wood and plain,And wish’d her reign were long;Till winds like armies, gather’d round,And stripp’d her colour’d woods,And storms urged on, with thunder-soundTheir desolating floods.And Summer’s endless stretch of green,Spread over plain and tree,Sweet solace to my eyes has been,As it to all must be;Long I have stood his burning heat,And breathed the sultry day,And walk’d and toil’d with weary feet,Nor wish’d his pride away.But oft I’ve watch’d the greening budsBrush’d by the linnet’s wing,When, like a child, the gladden’d woodsFirst lisp the voice of Spring;When flowers, like dreams, peep every day,Reminding what they bring;I’ve watch’d them, and am warn’d to payA preference to Spring.
NOWonce again, thou lovely Spring,Thy sight the day beguiles;For fresher greens the fairy ring,The daisy brighter smiles:The winds, that late with chiding voiceWould fain thy stay prolong,Relent, while little birds rejoice,And mingle into song.
Undaunted maiden, thou shalt findThy home in gleaming woods,Thy mantle in the southern wind,Thy wreath in swelling buds:And may thy mantle wrap thee round,And hopes still warm and thrive,And dews with every morn be foundTo keep thy wreath alive.
May coming suns, that tempt thy flowers,Smile on as they begin;And gentle be succeeding hoursAs those that bring thee in;Full lovely are thy dappled skies,Pearl’d round with promised showers,And sweet thy blossoms round thee riseTo meet the sunny hours.
The primrose bud, thy early pledge,Sprouts ’neath each woodland tree,And violets under every hedgePrepare a seat for thee:As maids just meeting woman’s bloomFeel love’s delicious strife,So Nature warms to find thee come,And kindles into life.
Through hedge-row leaves, in drifted heapsLeft by the stormy blast,The little hopeful blossom peeps,And tells of winter past:A few leaves flutter from the woods,That hung the season through,Leaving their place for swelling budsTo spread their leaves anew.
’Mong withered grass upon the plain,That lent the blast a voice,The tender green appears again,And creeping things rejoice;Each warm bank shines with early flowers,Where oft a lonely beeDrones, venturing on in sunny hours,Its humming song to thee.
The birds are busy on the wing,The fish play in the stream;And many a hasty curdled ringCrimps round the leaping bream;The buds unfold to leaves apace,Along the hedge-row bowers,And many a child with rosy faceIs seeking after flowers.
The soft wind fans the violet blue,Its opening sweets to share,And infant breezes, waked anew,Play in the maidens’ hair—Maidens that freshen with thy flowers,To charm the gentle swain,And dally, in their milking hours,With lovers’ vows again.
Bright dews illume the grassy plain,Sweet messengers of morn,And drops hang glistening after rainLike gems on every thorn;What though the grass is moist and rankWhere dews fall from the tree,The creeping sun smiles on the bankAnd warms a seat for thee.
The eager morning earlier wakesTo glad thy fond desires,And oft its rosy bed forsakesEre night’s pale moon retires;Sweet shalt thou feel the morning sunTo warm thy dewy breast,And chase the chill mist’s purple dunThat lingers in the west.
Her dresses Nature gladly trims,To hail thee as her queen,And soon shall fold thy lovely limbsIn modest garb of green:Each day shall like a lover comeSome gifts with thee to share,And swarms of flowers shall quickly bloomTo dress thy golden hair.
All life and beauty warm and smileThy lovely face to see,And many a hopeful hour beguileIn seeking joys with thee;The sweetest hours that ever comeAre those which thou dost bring,And sure the fairest flowers that bloomAre partners of the Spring.
I’ve met the Winter’s biting breathIn nature’s wild retreat,When Silence listens as in death,And thought its wildness sweet;And I have loved the Winter’s calmWhen frost has left the plain,When suns that morning waken’d warmLeft eve to freeze again.
I’ve heard in Autumn’s early reignHer first, her gentlest song;I’ve mark’d her change o’er wood and plain,And wish’d her reign were long;Till winds like armies, gather’d round,And stripp’d her colour’d woods,And storms urged on, with thunder-soundTheir desolating floods.
And Summer’s endless stretch of green,Spread over plain and tree,Sweet solace to my eyes has been,As it to all must be;Long I have stood his burning heat,And breathed the sultry day,And walk’d and toil’d with weary feet,Nor wish’d his pride away.
But oft I’ve watch’d the greening budsBrush’d by the linnet’s wing,When, like a child, the gladden’d woodsFirst lisp the voice of Spring;When flowers, like dreams, peep every day,Reminding what they bring;I’ve watch’d them, and am warn’d to payA preference to Spring.
MUSEof the Fields! oft have I said farewellTo thee, my boon companion, loved so long,And hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dell,For abler hands to wake an abler song.Much did I fear my homage did thee wrong:Yet, loth to leave, as oft I turned again;And to its wires mine idle hands would cling,Torturing it into song. It may be vain;Yet still I try, ere Fancy droops her wing,And hopeless Silence comes to numb its ev’ry string.Muse of the Pasture Brooks! on thy calm seaOf poesy I’ve sailed; and though the willTo speed were greater than my prowess be,I’ve ventur’d with much fear of usage ill,Yet more of joy. Though timid be my skill,As not to dare the depths of mightier streams;Yet rocks abide in shallow ways, and IHave much of fear to mingle with my dreams.Yet, lovely Muse, I still believe thee by,And think I see thee smile, and so forget I sigh.Muse of the Cottage Hearth! oft did I tellMy hopes to thee, nor feared to plead in vain;But felt around my heart thy witching spell,That bade me as thy worshipper remain:I did so, and still worship. Oh! againSmile on my offerings, and so keep them green!Bedeck my fancies like the clouds of even,Mingling all hues which thou from heaven dost glean!To me a portion of thy power be given,If theme so mean as mine may merit aught of heaven.For thee in youth I culled the simple flower,That on thy bosom gained a sweeter hue,And took thy hand along life’s sunny hour,Meeting the sweetest joys that ever grew:More friends were needless, and my foes were few.Though freedom then be deemed as rudeness now.And what once won thy praise now meets disdain,Yet the last wreath I braided for thy brow,Thy smiles did so commend, it made me vainTo weave another one, and hope for praise again.With thee the spirit of departed yearsWakes that sweet voice which time hath rendered dumb;And freshens, like to spring, loves, hopes, and fears,That in my bosom found an early home,Wooing the heart to ecstasy.—I comeTo thee, when sick of care, of joy bereft,Seeking the pleasures that are found in bloom.O happy hopes, that Time hath only leftAround the haunts where thou didst erst sojourn!Then smile, sweet Muse, again, and welcome my return.With thee the raptures of life’s early dayAppear, and all that pleased me when a boy.Though pains and cares have torn the best away,And winter creeps between us to destroy,Do thou commend, the recompence is joy:The tempest of the heart shall soon be calm.Though sterner Truth against my dreams rebel,Hope feels success; and all my spirits warm,To strike with happier mood thy simple shell,And seize thy mantle’s hem—O! say not fare-thee-well.Still, sweet Enchantress! youth’s strong feelings move,That from thy presence their existence took:—The innocent idolatry and love,Paying thee worship in each secret nook,That fancied friends in tree, and flower, and brook,Shaped clouds to angels and beheld them smile,And heard commending tongues in ev’ry wind.Life’s grosser fancies did these dreams defile,Yet not entirely root them from the mind;I think I hear them still, and often look behind.Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind,As if commending what I sung to thee;Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined,Kindling my fancies into poesy;I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me.In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest;I thought the very clouds around thee knelt:I saw the sun to linger in the west,Paying thee worship; and as eve did meltIn dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt.Sweeter than flowers on beauty’s bosom hung,Sweeter than dreams of happiness above,Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty sung,Are the young fancies of a poet’s love.When round his thoughts thy trancing visions move.In floating melody no notes may sound,The world is all forgot and past his care,While on thy harp thy fingers lightly bound,As winning him its melody to share;And heaven itself, with him, where is it then but there?E’en now my heart leaps out from grief, and allThe gloom thrown round by Care’s o’ershading wing;E’en now those sunny visions to recall,Like to a bird I quit dull earth and sing:Life’s tempest swoon to calms on every string.Ah! sweet Enchantress, if I do but dream,If earthly visions have been only mine,My weakness in thy service woos esteem,And proves my truth as almost worthy thine:Surely true worship makes the meanest theme divine.And still, warm courage, calming many a fear,Heartens my hand once more thy harp to tryTo join the anthem of the minstrel year:For summer’s music in thy praise is high;The very winds about thy mantle sighLove-melodies; thy minstrel bards to be,Insects and birds, exerting all their skill,Float in continued song for mastery,While in thy haunts loud leaps the little rill,To kiss thy mantle’s hem; and how can I be still?There still I see thee fold thy mantle grey,To trace the dewy lawn at morn and night;And there I see thee, in the sunny day,Withdraw thy veil and shine confest in light;Burning my fancies with a wild delight,To win a portion of thy blushing fame.Though haughty Fancy treat thy power as small,And Fashion thy simplicity disclaim,Should but a portion of thy mantle fallO’er him who woos thy love, ’tis recompense for all.Not with the mighty to thy shrine I come,In anxious sighs, or self applauding mirth,On Mount Parnassus as thine heir to roam:I dare not credit that immortal birth;But mingling with the lesser ones on earth—Like as the little lark from off its nest,Beside the mossy hill awakes in glee,To seek the morning’s throne a merry guest—So do I seek thy shrine, if that may be,To win by new attempts another smile from thee.If without thee ’neath storms, and clouds, and wind,I’ve roam’d the wood, and field, and meadow lea;And found no flowers but what the vulgar find,Nor met one breath of living poesy,Among such charms where inspirations be;The fault is mine—and I must bear the lotOf missing praise to merit thy disdain.To feel each idle plea though urged, forgot;I can but sigh—though foolish to complainO’er hopes so fair begun, to find them end so vain.Then will it prove presumption thus to dareTo add fresh failings to each faulty song,Urging thy blessings on an idle prayer,To sanction silly themes: it will be wrongFor one so lowly to be heard so long.Yet, sweet Enchantress, yet a little whileForego impatience, and from frowns refrain;The strong are ne’er debarr’d thy cheering smile,Why should the weak, who need them most, complainAlone, in solitude, soliciting in vain?But if my efforts on thy harp prove true,Which bashful youth at first so feared to try;If aught of nature be in sounds I drewFrom hope’s young dreams, and doubt’s uncertainty,To these late offerings, not without their sigh;Then on thine altar shall these themes be laid,And past the deeds of graven brass remain,Filling a space in time that shall not fade;And if it be not so—avert disdain,Till dust shall feel no sting, nor know it toil’d in vain.
MUSEof the Fields! oft have I said farewellTo thee, my boon companion, loved so long,And hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dell,For abler hands to wake an abler song.Much did I fear my homage did thee wrong:Yet, loth to leave, as oft I turned again;And to its wires mine idle hands would cling,Torturing it into song. It may be vain;Yet still I try, ere Fancy droops her wing,And hopeless Silence comes to numb its ev’ry string.Muse of the Pasture Brooks! on thy calm seaOf poesy I’ve sailed; and though the willTo speed were greater than my prowess be,I’ve ventur’d with much fear of usage ill,Yet more of joy. Though timid be my skill,As not to dare the depths of mightier streams;Yet rocks abide in shallow ways, and IHave much of fear to mingle with my dreams.Yet, lovely Muse, I still believe thee by,And think I see thee smile, and so forget I sigh.Muse of the Cottage Hearth! oft did I tellMy hopes to thee, nor feared to plead in vain;But felt around my heart thy witching spell,That bade me as thy worshipper remain:I did so, and still worship. Oh! againSmile on my offerings, and so keep them green!Bedeck my fancies like the clouds of even,Mingling all hues which thou from heaven dost glean!To me a portion of thy power be given,If theme so mean as mine may merit aught of heaven.For thee in youth I culled the simple flower,That on thy bosom gained a sweeter hue,And took thy hand along life’s sunny hour,Meeting the sweetest joys that ever grew:More friends were needless, and my foes were few.Though freedom then be deemed as rudeness now.And what once won thy praise now meets disdain,Yet the last wreath I braided for thy brow,Thy smiles did so commend, it made me vainTo weave another one, and hope for praise again.With thee the spirit of departed yearsWakes that sweet voice which time hath rendered dumb;And freshens, like to spring, loves, hopes, and fears,That in my bosom found an early home,Wooing the heart to ecstasy.—I comeTo thee, when sick of care, of joy bereft,Seeking the pleasures that are found in bloom.O happy hopes, that Time hath only leftAround the haunts where thou didst erst sojourn!Then smile, sweet Muse, again, and welcome my return.With thee the raptures of life’s early dayAppear, and all that pleased me when a boy.Though pains and cares have torn the best away,And winter creeps between us to destroy,Do thou commend, the recompence is joy:The tempest of the heart shall soon be calm.Though sterner Truth against my dreams rebel,Hope feels success; and all my spirits warm,To strike with happier mood thy simple shell,And seize thy mantle’s hem—O! say not fare-thee-well.Still, sweet Enchantress! youth’s strong feelings move,That from thy presence their existence took:—The innocent idolatry and love,Paying thee worship in each secret nook,That fancied friends in tree, and flower, and brook,Shaped clouds to angels and beheld them smile,And heard commending tongues in ev’ry wind.Life’s grosser fancies did these dreams defile,Yet not entirely root them from the mind;I think I hear them still, and often look behind.Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind,As if commending what I sung to thee;Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined,Kindling my fancies into poesy;I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me.In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest;I thought the very clouds around thee knelt:I saw the sun to linger in the west,Paying thee worship; and as eve did meltIn dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt.Sweeter than flowers on beauty’s bosom hung,Sweeter than dreams of happiness above,Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty sung,Are the young fancies of a poet’s love.When round his thoughts thy trancing visions move.In floating melody no notes may sound,The world is all forgot and past his care,While on thy harp thy fingers lightly bound,As winning him its melody to share;And heaven itself, with him, where is it then but there?E’en now my heart leaps out from grief, and allThe gloom thrown round by Care’s o’ershading wing;E’en now those sunny visions to recall,Like to a bird I quit dull earth and sing:Life’s tempest swoon to calms on every string.Ah! sweet Enchantress, if I do but dream,If earthly visions have been only mine,My weakness in thy service woos esteem,And proves my truth as almost worthy thine:Surely true worship makes the meanest theme divine.And still, warm courage, calming many a fear,Heartens my hand once more thy harp to tryTo join the anthem of the minstrel year:For summer’s music in thy praise is high;The very winds about thy mantle sighLove-melodies; thy minstrel bards to be,Insects and birds, exerting all their skill,Float in continued song for mastery,While in thy haunts loud leaps the little rill,To kiss thy mantle’s hem; and how can I be still?There still I see thee fold thy mantle grey,To trace the dewy lawn at morn and night;And there I see thee, in the sunny day,Withdraw thy veil and shine confest in light;Burning my fancies with a wild delight,To win a portion of thy blushing fame.Though haughty Fancy treat thy power as small,And Fashion thy simplicity disclaim,Should but a portion of thy mantle fallO’er him who woos thy love, ’tis recompense for all.Not with the mighty to thy shrine I come,In anxious sighs, or self applauding mirth,On Mount Parnassus as thine heir to roam:I dare not credit that immortal birth;But mingling with the lesser ones on earth—Like as the little lark from off its nest,Beside the mossy hill awakes in glee,To seek the morning’s throne a merry guest—So do I seek thy shrine, if that may be,To win by new attempts another smile from thee.If without thee ’neath storms, and clouds, and wind,I’ve roam’d the wood, and field, and meadow lea;And found no flowers but what the vulgar find,Nor met one breath of living poesy,Among such charms where inspirations be;The fault is mine—and I must bear the lotOf missing praise to merit thy disdain.To feel each idle plea though urged, forgot;I can but sigh—though foolish to complainO’er hopes so fair begun, to find them end so vain.Then will it prove presumption thus to dareTo add fresh failings to each faulty song,Urging thy blessings on an idle prayer,To sanction silly themes: it will be wrongFor one so lowly to be heard so long.Yet, sweet Enchantress, yet a little whileForego impatience, and from frowns refrain;The strong are ne’er debarr’d thy cheering smile,Why should the weak, who need them most, complainAlone, in solitude, soliciting in vain?But if my efforts on thy harp prove true,Which bashful youth at first so feared to try;If aught of nature be in sounds I drewFrom hope’s young dreams, and doubt’s uncertainty,To these late offerings, not without their sigh;Then on thine altar shall these themes be laid,And past the deeds of graven brass remain,Filling a space in time that shall not fade;And if it be not so—avert disdain,Till dust shall feel no sting, nor know it toil’d in vain.
MUSEof the Fields! oft have I said farewellTo thee, my boon companion, loved so long,And hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dell,For abler hands to wake an abler song.Much did I fear my homage did thee wrong:Yet, loth to leave, as oft I turned again;And to its wires mine idle hands would cling,Torturing it into song. It may be vain;Yet still I try, ere Fancy droops her wing,And hopeless Silence comes to numb its ev’ry string.
Muse of the Pasture Brooks! on thy calm seaOf poesy I’ve sailed; and though the willTo speed were greater than my prowess be,I’ve ventur’d with much fear of usage ill,Yet more of joy. Though timid be my skill,As not to dare the depths of mightier streams;Yet rocks abide in shallow ways, and IHave much of fear to mingle with my dreams.Yet, lovely Muse, I still believe thee by,And think I see thee smile, and so forget I sigh.
Muse of the Cottage Hearth! oft did I tellMy hopes to thee, nor feared to plead in vain;But felt around my heart thy witching spell,That bade me as thy worshipper remain:I did so, and still worship. Oh! againSmile on my offerings, and so keep them green!Bedeck my fancies like the clouds of even,Mingling all hues which thou from heaven dost glean!To me a portion of thy power be given,If theme so mean as mine may merit aught of heaven.
For thee in youth I culled the simple flower,That on thy bosom gained a sweeter hue,And took thy hand along life’s sunny hour,Meeting the sweetest joys that ever grew:More friends were needless, and my foes were few.Though freedom then be deemed as rudeness now.And what once won thy praise now meets disdain,Yet the last wreath I braided for thy brow,Thy smiles did so commend, it made me vainTo weave another one, and hope for praise again.
With thee the spirit of departed yearsWakes that sweet voice which time hath rendered dumb;And freshens, like to spring, loves, hopes, and fears,That in my bosom found an early home,Wooing the heart to ecstasy.—I comeTo thee, when sick of care, of joy bereft,Seeking the pleasures that are found in bloom.O happy hopes, that Time hath only leftAround the haunts where thou didst erst sojourn!Then smile, sweet Muse, again, and welcome my return.
With thee the raptures of life’s early dayAppear, and all that pleased me when a boy.Though pains and cares have torn the best away,And winter creeps between us to destroy,Do thou commend, the recompence is joy:The tempest of the heart shall soon be calm.Though sterner Truth against my dreams rebel,Hope feels success; and all my spirits warm,To strike with happier mood thy simple shell,And seize thy mantle’s hem—O! say not fare-thee-well.
Still, sweet Enchantress! youth’s strong feelings move,That from thy presence their existence took:—The innocent idolatry and love,Paying thee worship in each secret nook,That fancied friends in tree, and flower, and brook,Shaped clouds to angels and beheld them smile,And heard commending tongues in ev’ry wind.Life’s grosser fancies did these dreams defile,Yet not entirely root them from the mind;I think I hear them still, and often look behind.
Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind,As if commending what I sung to thee;Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined,Kindling my fancies into poesy;I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me.In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest;I thought the very clouds around thee knelt:I saw the sun to linger in the west,Paying thee worship; and as eve did meltIn dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt.
Sweeter than flowers on beauty’s bosom hung,Sweeter than dreams of happiness above,Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty sung,Are the young fancies of a poet’s love.When round his thoughts thy trancing visions move.In floating melody no notes may sound,The world is all forgot and past his care,While on thy harp thy fingers lightly bound,As winning him its melody to share;And heaven itself, with him, where is it then but there?
E’en now my heart leaps out from grief, and allThe gloom thrown round by Care’s o’ershading wing;E’en now those sunny visions to recall,Like to a bird I quit dull earth and sing:Life’s tempest swoon to calms on every string.Ah! sweet Enchantress, if I do but dream,If earthly visions have been only mine,My weakness in thy service woos esteem,And proves my truth as almost worthy thine:Surely true worship makes the meanest theme divine.
And still, warm courage, calming many a fear,Heartens my hand once more thy harp to tryTo join the anthem of the minstrel year:For summer’s music in thy praise is high;The very winds about thy mantle sighLove-melodies; thy minstrel bards to be,Insects and birds, exerting all their skill,Float in continued song for mastery,While in thy haunts loud leaps the little rill,To kiss thy mantle’s hem; and how can I be still?
There still I see thee fold thy mantle grey,To trace the dewy lawn at morn and night;And there I see thee, in the sunny day,Withdraw thy veil and shine confest in light;Burning my fancies with a wild delight,To win a portion of thy blushing fame.Though haughty Fancy treat thy power as small,And Fashion thy simplicity disclaim,Should but a portion of thy mantle fallO’er him who woos thy love, ’tis recompense for all.
Not with the mighty to thy shrine I come,In anxious sighs, or self applauding mirth,On Mount Parnassus as thine heir to roam:I dare not credit that immortal birth;But mingling with the lesser ones on earth—Like as the little lark from off its nest,Beside the mossy hill awakes in glee,To seek the morning’s throne a merry guest—So do I seek thy shrine, if that may be,To win by new attempts another smile from thee.
If without thee ’neath storms, and clouds, and wind,I’ve roam’d the wood, and field, and meadow lea;And found no flowers but what the vulgar find,Nor met one breath of living poesy,Among such charms where inspirations be;The fault is mine—and I must bear the lotOf missing praise to merit thy disdain.To feel each idle plea though urged, forgot;I can but sigh—though foolish to complainO’er hopes so fair begun, to find them end so vain.
Then will it prove presumption thus to dareTo add fresh failings to each faulty song,Urging thy blessings on an idle prayer,To sanction silly themes: it will be wrongFor one so lowly to be heard so long.Yet, sweet Enchantress, yet a little whileForego impatience, and from frowns refrain;The strong are ne’er debarr’d thy cheering smile,Why should the weak, who need them most, complainAlone, in solitude, soliciting in vain?
But if my efforts on thy harp prove true,Which bashful youth at first so feared to try;If aught of nature be in sounds I drewFrom hope’s young dreams, and doubt’s uncertainty,To these late offerings, not without their sigh;Then on thine altar shall these themes be laid,And past the deeds of graven brass remain,Filling a space in time that shall not fade;And if it be not so—avert disdain,Till dust shall feel no sting, nor know it toil’d in vain.
NOWswarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned,Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring;And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank’d, and crown’d,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 charms 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 wealth 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 ear with mellow horn.The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe,Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks;The 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.The 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 o’erflow,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.There 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.When passions vain intrude,These, by calm musings, 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 prideFree 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;The green lane now I traverse, where it goesNought guessing, till some sudden turn espiesRude batter’d finger post, that stooping showsWhere the snug mystery lies;And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,Cheers 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 minted new.And mark by rustic bridge, o’er 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.Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams,Or forests rude, and the o’ershadow’d brimsOf simple pond, where idle shepherd dreams,Stretching his listless limbs;Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and longWhere 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 o’er 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 bent’s dew-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.Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy,With clapping noise to startle birds away,And hear him bawl to every passer byTo know the hour of day;While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong,With waking blossoms play,And breathe Æolian song.I love the south-west wind, or low or loud,And not the less when sudden drops of rainMoisten my glowing 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 o’er the mingling scenesFar spreads the laughing sky.See, how the wind-enamoured aspin leavesTurn up their silver lining to the sun!And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceivesAnd makes the sheep-boy run;The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers,He thinks the rain’s 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 flighty circlet makes;The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew;O’er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakesInquiries ever new,Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain,As wanting to pursueHis homeward path again.Hark! ’tis the melody of distant bellsThat on the wind with pleasing hum reboundsBy fitful starts, then musically swellsO’er the dim 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,And scour the dewy plain.How sweet the soothing calmness that distillsO’er 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 cheer’d me when a boy.Play—pastime—all Time’s blotting pen conceal’d,Comes like a new-born joy,To greet me in the field.For Nature’s objects ever harmonizeWith emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys;Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize,And meet vibrating joysO’er Nature’s pleasing things; nor slighting, deemsPastimes, the Muse employs,Vain and obtrusive themes.
NOWswarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned,Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring;And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank’d, and crown’d,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 charms 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 wealth 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 ear with mellow horn.The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe,Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks;The 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.The 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 o’erflow,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.There 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.When passions vain intrude,These, by calm musings, 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 prideFree 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;The green lane now I traverse, where it goesNought guessing, till some sudden turn espiesRude batter’d finger post, that stooping showsWhere the snug mystery lies;And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,Cheers 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 minted new.And mark by rustic bridge, o’er 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.Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams,Or forests rude, and the o’ershadow’d brimsOf simple pond, where idle shepherd dreams,Stretching his listless limbs;Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and longWhere 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 o’er 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 bent’s dew-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.Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy,With clapping noise to startle birds away,And hear him bawl to every passer byTo know the hour of day;While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong,With waking blossoms play,And breathe Æolian song.I love the south-west wind, or low or loud,And not the less when sudden drops of rainMoisten my glowing 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 o’er the mingling scenesFar spreads the laughing sky.See, how the wind-enamoured aspin leavesTurn up their silver lining to the sun!And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceivesAnd makes the sheep-boy run;The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers,He thinks the rain’s 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 flighty circlet makes;The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew;O’er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakesInquiries ever new,Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain,As wanting to pursueHis homeward path again.Hark! ’tis the melody of distant bellsThat on the wind with pleasing hum reboundsBy fitful starts, then musically swellsO’er the dim 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,And scour the dewy plain.How sweet the soothing calmness that distillsO’er 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 cheer’d me when a boy.Play—pastime—all Time’s blotting pen conceal’d,Comes like a new-born joy,To greet me in the field.For Nature’s objects ever harmonizeWith emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys;Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize,And meet vibrating joysO’er Nature’s pleasing things; nor slighting, deemsPastimes, the Muse employs,Vain and obtrusive themes.
NOWswarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned,Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring;And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank’d, and crown’d,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 charms 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 wealth 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 ear with mellow horn.
The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe,Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks;The 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.
The 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 o’erflow,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.
There 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.When passions vain intrude,These, by calm musings, 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 prideFree 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;
The green lane now I traverse, where it goesNought guessing, till some sudden turn espiesRude batter’d finger post, that stooping showsWhere the snug mystery lies;And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,Cheers 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 minted new.
And mark by rustic bridge, o’er 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.
Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams,Or forests rude, and the o’ershadow’d brimsOf simple pond, where idle shepherd dreams,Stretching his listless limbs;Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and longWhere 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 o’er 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 bent’s dew-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.
Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy,With clapping noise to startle birds away,And hear him bawl to every passer byTo know the hour of day;While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong,With waking blossoms play,And breathe Æolian song.
I love the south-west wind, or low or loud,And not the less when sudden drops of rainMoisten my glowing 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 o’er the mingling scenesFar spreads the laughing sky.
See, how the wind-enamoured aspin leavesTurn up their silver lining to the sun!And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceivesAnd makes the sheep-boy run;The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers,He thinks the rain’s 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 flighty circlet makes;The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew;O’er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakesInquiries ever new,Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain,As wanting to pursueHis homeward path again.
Hark! ’tis the melody of distant bellsThat on the wind with pleasing hum reboundsBy fitful starts, then musically swellsO’er the dim 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,And scour the dewy plain.
How sweet the soothing calmness that distillsO’er 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 cheer’d me when a boy.Play—pastime—all Time’s blotting pen conceal’d,Comes like a new-born joy,To greet me in the field.
For Nature’s objects ever harmonizeWith emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys;Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize,And meet vibrating joysO’er Nature’s pleasing things; nor slighting, deemsPastimes, the Muse employs,Vain and obtrusive themes.