Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!For Summer's nearly done;The garden smiling faintly,Cool breezes in the sun;Our thrushes now are silent,Our swallows flown away,—But Robin's here in coat of brown,And scarlet breast-knot gay.Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!Robin sings so sweetlyIn the falling of the year.Bright yellow, red, and orange,The leaves come down in hosts;The trees are Indian princes,But soon they'll turn to ghosts;The leathery pears and applesHang russet on the bough;Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,'Twill soon be Winter now.Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!And what will this poor Robin do?For pinching days are near.The fire-side for the cricket,The wheatstack for the mouse,When trembling night-winds whistleAnd moan all round the house.The frosty ways like iron,The branches plumed with snow,—Alas! in winter dead and dark,Where can poor Robin go?Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!And a crumb of bread for Robin,His little heart to cheer.
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!For Summer's nearly done;The garden smiling faintly,Cool breezes in the sun;Our thrushes now are silent,Our swallows flown away,—But Robin's here in coat of brown,And scarlet breast-knot gay.Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!Robin sings so sweetlyIn the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,The leaves come down in hosts;The trees are Indian princes,But soon they'll turn to ghosts;The leathery pears and applesHang russet on the bough;Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,'Twill soon be Winter now.Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!And what will this poor Robin do?For pinching days are near.
The fire-side for the cricket,The wheatstack for the mouse,When trembling night-winds whistleAnd moan all round the house.The frosty ways like iron,The branches plumed with snow,—Alas! in winter dead and dark,Where can poor Robin go?Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!And a crumb of bread for Robin,His little heart to cheer.
W. Allingham
In the hollow tree in the grey old tower,The spectral owl doth dwell;Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour,But at dusk,—he's abroad and well:Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;All mock him outright by day;But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,The boldest will shrink away;O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,Then, then is the reign of the horned owl!And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold,And loveth the wood's deep gloom;And with eyes like the shine of the moonshine coldShe awaiteth her ghastly groom!Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,As she waits in her tree so still;But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,She hoots out her welcome shrill!O, when the moon shines, and the dogs do howl,Then, then is the cry of the horned owl!Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight!The owl hath his share of good:If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,He is lord in the dark green wood!Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate;They are each unto each a pride—Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fateHath rent them from all beside!So when the night falls, and dogs do howl,Sing Ho! for the reign of the horned owl!We know not alway who are kings by day,But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.
In the hollow tree in the grey old tower,The spectral owl doth dwell;Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour,But at dusk,—he's abroad and well:Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;All mock him outright by day;But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,The boldest will shrink away;O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,Then, then is the reign of the horned owl!
And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold,And loveth the wood's deep gloom;And with eyes like the shine of the moonshine coldShe awaiteth her ghastly groom!Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,As she waits in her tree so still;But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,She hoots out her welcome shrill!O, when the moon shines, and the dogs do howl,Then, then is the cry of the horned owl!
Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight!The owl hath his share of good:If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,He is lord in the dark green wood!Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate;They are each unto each a pride—Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fateHath rent them from all beside!So when the night falls, and dogs do howl,Sing Ho! for the reign of the horned owl!We know not alway who are kings by day,But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.
B. Cornwall
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor,With the slow motion of a summer's cloud,And now, as he approach'd a vassal's door,'Bring forth another horse!' he cried aloud.'Another horse!' that shout the vassal heard,And saddled his best steed, a comely grey;Sir Walter mounted him; he was the thirdWhich he had mounted on that glorious day.Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;The horse and horseman are a happy pair;But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,There is a doleful silence in the air.A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,And as they galloped made the echoes roar;But horse and man are vanished, one and all;Such race, I think, was never seen before.Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain;Blanche, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.The Knight halloed, he cheered and chid them onWith suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?The bugles that so joyfully were blown?This chase, it looks not like an earthly chase:Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;I will not stop to tell how far he fled,Nor will I mention by what death he died;But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:He neither cracked his whip nor blew his horn,But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned,And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet:Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched;His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched;The waters of the spring were trembling still.And now, too happy for repose or rest,(Never had living man such joyful lot!)Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,And gazed, and gazed upon that darling spot.And climbing up the hill, (it was at leastFour roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter foundThree several hoof-marks, which the hunted beastHad left imprinted in the grassy ground.Sir Walter wiped his face and cried, 'Till nowSuch sight was never seen by human eyes;Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,Down to the very fountain where he lies.'I'll build a pleasure house upon this spot,And a small arbour made for rural joy;'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,A place of love for damsels that are coy.'A cunning artist will I have to frameA basin for that fountain in the dell!And they who do make mention of the same,From this day forth shall call it Hart Leap Well.'And, gallant stag, to make thy praises known,Another monument shall here be raised;Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone,And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.'And in the summer time, when days are long,I will come hither with my paramour,And with the dancers and the minstrels' song,We will make merry in that pleasant bower.'Till the foundations of the mountains fail,My mansion with its arbour shall endure;The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!'Then home he went and left the Hart, stone-dead,With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring.Soon did the Knight perform what he had said;And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered,A cup of stone received the living well;Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,And built a house for pleasure in the dell.And near the fountain flowers of stature tall,With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,—Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.And thither, when the summer days were long,Sir Walter led his wandering paramour,And with the dancers and the minstrels' song,Made merriment within that pleasant bower.The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,And his bones lie in his paternal vale.But there is matter for a second rhyme,And I to this would add another tale.
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor,With the slow motion of a summer's cloud,And now, as he approach'd a vassal's door,'Bring forth another horse!' he cried aloud.
'Another horse!' that shout the vassal heard,And saddled his best steed, a comely grey;Sir Walter mounted him; he was the thirdWhich he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;The horse and horseman are a happy pair;But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,There is a doleful silence in the air.
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,And as they galloped made the echoes roar;But horse and man are vanished, one and all;Such race, I think, was never seen before.
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain;Blanche, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.
The Knight halloed, he cheered and chid them onWith suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?The bugles that so joyfully were blown?This chase, it looks not like an earthly chase:Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;I will not stop to tell how far he fled,Nor will I mention by what death he died;But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:He neither cracked his whip nor blew his horn,But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned,And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet:
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched;His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched;The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest,(Never had living man such joyful lot!)Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,And gazed, and gazed upon that darling spot.
And climbing up the hill, (it was at leastFour roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter foundThree several hoof-marks, which the hunted beastHad left imprinted in the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face and cried, 'Till nowSuch sight was never seen by human eyes;Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,Down to the very fountain where he lies.
'I'll build a pleasure house upon this spot,And a small arbour made for rural joy;'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,A place of love for damsels that are coy.
'A cunning artist will I have to frameA basin for that fountain in the dell!And they who do make mention of the same,From this day forth shall call it Hart Leap Well.
'And, gallant stag, to make thy praises known,Another monument shall here be raised;Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone,And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
'And in the summer time, when days are long,I will come hither with my paramour,And with the dancers and the minstrels' song,We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
'Till the foundations of the mountains fail,My mansion with its arbour shall endure;The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!'
Then home he went and left the Hart, stone-dead,With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring.Soon did the Knight perform what he had said;And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered,A cup of stone received the living well;Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,And built a house for pleasure in the dell.
And near the fountain flowers of stature tall,With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,—Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
And thither, when the summer days were long,Sir Walter led his wandering paramour,And with the dancers and the minstrels' song,Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,And his bones lie in his paternal vale.But there is matter for a second rhyme,And I to this would add another tale.
The moving accident is not my trade;To freeze the blood I have no ready arts;'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts.As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,It chanced that I saw standing in a dellThree aspens at three corners of a square;And one, not four yards distant, near a well.What this imported I could ill divine;And pulling now the rein my horse to stop,I saw three pillars standing in a line,—The last stone-pillar on a dark hill top.The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head;Half wasted the square mound of tawny green,So that you might just say, as then I said,'Here in old time the hand of man hath been.'I looked upon the hill both far and near,More doleful place did never eye survey;It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,And Nature here were willing to decay.I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,Came up the hollow:—him I did accost,And what this place might be I then inquired.The Shepherd stopped, and that same story toldWhich in my former rhyme I have rehearsed;'A jolly place,' said he, 'in times of old!But something ails it now; the spot is curst.'You see those lifeless stumps of aspen wood—Some say that they are beeches, others elms—These were the bower; and here a mansion stood,The finest palace of a hundred realms!'The arbour does its own condition tell;You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream;But as to the great lodge! you might as wellHunt half the day for a forgotten dream.'There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;And oftentimes when all are fast asleep,This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.'Some say that here a murder has been done,And blood cries out for blood; but for my partI've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,That it was all for that unhappy Hart.'What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past!Even from the topmost stone upon the steep,Are but three bounds—and look, Sir, at this last—O master! it has been a cruel leap.'For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;And in my simple mind we cannot tellWhat cause the Hart might have to love this place,And come and make his death-bed near the well.'Here on the grass, perhaps, asleep he sank,Lulled by the fountain in the summer tide;This water was perhaps the first he drank,When he had wandered from his mother's side.'In April here beneath the flowering thorn,He heard the birds their morning carols sing;And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was bornNot half a furlong from that self-same spring.'Now here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;The sun on drearier hollow never shone;So will it be, as I have often said,Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone.''Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;Small difference lies between thy creed and mine.This beast not unobserved by Nature fell;His death was mourned by sympathy Divine.'The Being that is in the clouds and air,That is in the green leaves among the groves,Maintains a deep and reverential careFor the unoffending creatures whom he loves.'The pleasure house is dust, behind, before,This is no common waste, no common gloom.But Nature, in due course of time, once moreShall here put on her beauty and her bloom.'She leaves these objects to a slow decay,That what we are, and have been, may be known;But at the coming of a milder day,These monuments shall all be overgrown.'One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,Taught both by what she shows and what conceals,Never to blend our pleasure or our pride,With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.'
The moving accident is not my trade;To freeze the blood I have no ready arts;'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,It chanced that I saw standing in a dellThree aspens at three corners of a square;And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine;And pulling now the rein my horse to stop,I saw three pillars standing in a line,—The last stone-pillar on a dark hill top.
The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head;Half wasted the square mound of tawny green,So that you might just say, as then I said,'Here in old time the hand of man hath been.'
I looked upon the hill both far and near,More doleful place did never eye survey;It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,And Nature here were willing to decay.
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,Came up the hollow:—him I did accost,And what this place might be I then inquired.
The Shepherd stopped, and that same story toldWhich in my former rhyme I have rehearsed;'A jolly place,' said he, 'in times of old!But something ails it now; the spot is curst.
'You see those lifeless stumps of aspen wood—Some say that they are beeches, others elms—These were the bower; and here a mansion stood,The finest palace of a hundred realms!
'The arbour does its own condition tell;You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream;But as to the great lodge! you might as wellHunt half the day for a forgotten dream.
'There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;And oftentimes when all are fast asleep,This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
'Some say that here a murder has been done,And blood cries out for blood; but for my partI've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,That it was all for that unhappy Hart.
'What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past!Even from the topmost stone upon the steep,Are but three bounds—and look, Sir, at this last—O master! it has been a cruel leap.
'For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;And in my simple mind we cannot tellWhat cause the Hart might have to love this place,And come and make his death-bed near the well.
'Here on the grass, perhaps, asleep he sank,Lulled by the fountain in the summer tide;This water was perhaps the first he drank,When he had wandered from his mother's side.
'In April here beneath the flowering thorn,He heard the birds their morning carols sing;And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was bornNot half a furlong from that self-same spring.
'Now here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;The sun on drearier hollow never shone;So will it be, as I have often said,Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone.'
'Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;Small difference lies between thy creed and mine.This beast not unobserved by Nature fell;His death was mourned by sympathy Divine.
'The Being that is in the clouds and air,That is in the green leaves among the groves,Maintains a deep and reverential careFor the unoffending creatures whom he loves.
'The pleasure house is dust, behind, before,This is no common waste, no common gloom.But Nature, in due course of time, once moreShall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
'She leaves these objects to a slow decay,That what we are, and have been, may be known;But at the coming of a milder day,These monuments shall all be overgrown.
'One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,Taught both by what she shows and what conceals,Never to blend our pleasure or our pride,With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.'
W. Wordsworth
Before the stout harvesters falleth the grain,As when the strong storm-wind is reaping the plain,And loiters the boy in the briery lane;But yonder aslant comes the silvery rain,Like a long line of spears brightly burnish'd and tall.Adown the white highway like cavalry fleet,It dashes the dust with its numberless feet.Like a murmurless school, in their leafy retreat,The wild birds sit listening the drops round them beat;And the boy crouches close to the blackberry wall.The swallows alone take the storm on their wing,And, taunting the tree-sheltered labourers, sing,Like pebbles the rain breaks the face of the spring,While a bubble darts up from each widening ring;And the boy in dismay hears the loud shower fall.But soon are the harvesters tossing their sheaves;The robin darts out from his bower of leaves;The wren peereth forth from the moss-covered eaves;And the rain-spatter'd urchin now gladly perceivesThat the beautiful bow bendeth over them all.
Before the stout harvesters falleth the grain,As when the strong storm-wind is reaping the plain,And loiters the boy in the briery lane;But yonder aslant comes the silvery rain,Like a long line of spears brightly burnish'd and tall.
Adown the white highway like cavalry fleet,It dashes the dust with its numberless feet.Like a murmurless school, in their leafy retreat,The wild birds sit listening the drops round them beat;And the boy crouches close to the blackberry wall.
The swallows alone take the storm on their wing,And, taunting the tree-sheltered labourers, sing,Like pebbles the rain breaks the face of the spring,While a bubble darts up from each widening ring;And the boy in dismay hears the loud shower fall.
But soon are the harvesters tossing their sheaves;The robin darts out from his bower of leaves;The wren peereth forth from the moss-covered eaves;And the rain-spatter'd urchin now gladly perceivesThat the beautiful bow bendeth over them all.
T. B. Read
Oh, hear a pensive prisoner's prayer,For liberty that sighs;And never let thine heart be shutAgainst the wretch's cries!For here forlorn and sad I sit,Within the wiry grate;And tremble at the approaching morn,Which brings impending fate.If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed,And spurned a tyrant's chain,Let not thy strong oppressive forceA free-born mouse detain!Oh, do not stain with guiltless bloodThy hospitable hearth!Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayedA prize so little worth.The scattered gleanings of a feastMy frugal meals supply;But if thy unrelenting heartThat slender boon deny,—The cheerful light, the vital air,Are blessings widely given;Let Nature's commoners enjoyThe common gifts of heaven.Beware, lest in the worm you crush,A brother's soul you find;And tremble lest thy luckless handDislodge a kindred mind.Or if this transient gleam of dayBeallthe life we share,Let pity plead within thy breast,That littleallto spare.So may thy hospitable boardWith health and peace be crowned;And every charm of heartfelt easeBeneath thy roof be found.So when destruction works unseen,Which man, like mice, may share,May some kind angel clear thy path,And break the hidden snare.
Oh, hear a pensive prisoner's prayer,For liberty that sighs;And never let thine heart be shutAgainst the wretch's cries!
For here forlorn and sad I sit,Within the wiry grate;And tremble at the approaching morn,Which brings impending fate.
If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed,And spurned a tyrant's chain,Let not thy strong oppressive forceA free-born mouse detain!
Oh, do not stain with guiltless bloodThy hospitable hearth!Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayedA prize so little worth.
The scattered gleanings of a feastMy frugal meals supply;But if thy unrelenting heartThat slender boon deny,—
The cheerful light, the vital air,Are blessings widely given;Let Nature's commoners enjoyThe common gifts of heaven.
Beware, lest in the worm you crush,A brother's soul you find;And tremble lest thy luckless handDislodge a kindred mind.
Or if this transient gleam of dayBeallthe life we share,Let pity plead within thy breast,That littleallto spare.
So may thy hospitable boardWith health and peace be crowned;And every charm of heartfelt easeBeneath thy roof be found.
So when destruction works unseen,Which man, like mice, may share,May some kind angel clear thy path,And break the hidden snare.
A. L. Barbauld
Happy insect! what can beIn happiness compared to thee?Fed with nourishment divine,The dewy morning's gentle wine!Nature waits upon thee still,And thy verdant cup does fill;'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,Nature's self's thy Ganymede.Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,Happier than the happiest king!All the fields which thou dost see,All the plants belong to thee,All that summer hours produce,Fertile made with early juice:Man for thee does sow and plough;Farmer he and landlord thou!Thou dost innocently joy,Nor does thy luxury destroy.The shepherd gladly heareth thee,More harmonious than he.Thee, country minds with gladness hear,Prophet of the ripened year:Thee Phœbus loves and does inspire;Phœbus is himself thy sire.To thee of all things upon earth,Life is no longer than thy mirth.Happy insect! happy thou,Dost neither age nor winter know:But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sungThy fill, the flowery leaves among(Voluptuous and wise withal,Epicurean animal)Sated with the summer feastThou retir'st to endless rest.
Happy insect! what can beIn happiness compared to thee?Fed with nourishment divine,The dewy morning's gentle wine!Nature waits upon thee still,And thy verdant cup does fill;'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,Nature's self's thy Ganymede.Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,Happier than the happiest king!All the fields which thou dost see,All the plants belong to thee,All that summer hours produce,Fertile made with early juice:Man for thee does sow and plough;Farmer he and landlord thou!Thou dost innocently joy,Nor does thy luxury destroy.The shepherd gladly heareth thee,More harmonious than he.Thee, country minds with gladness hear,Prophet of the ripened year:Thee Phœbus loves and does inspire;Phœbus is himself thy sire.To thee of all things upon earth,Life is no longer than thy mirth.Happy insect! happy thou,Dost neither age nor winter know:But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sungThy fill, the flowery leaves among(Voluptuous and wise withal,Epicurean animal)Sated with the summer feastThou retir'st to endless rest.
A. Cowley
My banks they are furnished with bees,Whose murmur invites one to sleep;My grottoes are shaded with trees,And my hills are white over with sheep.I seldom have met with a loss,Such health do my fountains bestow;My fountains all bordered with moss,Where the harebells and violets blow.Not a pine in the grove is there seen,But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;Not a beech's more beautiful green,But a sweet-briar entwines it around.Not my fields in the prime of the year,More charms than my cattle unfold;Not a brook that is limpid and clear,But it glitters with fishes of gold.I have found out a gift for my fair,I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;But let me such plunder forbear,She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;For he ne'er could be true, she averred,Who would rob a poor bird of its young;And I loved her the more when I heardSuch tenderness fall from her tongue.
My banks they are furnished with bees,Whose murmur invites one to sleep;My grottoes are shaded with trees,And my hills are white over with sheep.I seldom have met with a loss,Such health do my fountains bestow;My fountains all bordered with moss,Where the harebells and violets blow.
Not a pine in the grove is there seen,But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;Not a beech's more beautiful green,But a sweet-briar entwines it around.Not my fields in the prime of the year,More charms than my cattle unfold;Not a brook that is limpid and clear,But it glitters with fishes of gold.
I have found out a gift for my fair,I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;But let me such plunder forbear,She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;For he ne'er could be true, she averred,Who would rob a poor bird of its young;And I loved her the more when I heardSuch tenderness fall from her tongue.
W. Shenstone
In her ear he whispers gaily,'If my heart by signs can tell,Maiden, I have watched thee daily,And I think thou lov'st me well.'She replies, in accents fainter,'There is none I love like thee.'He is but a landscape painter,And a village maiden she.He to lips that fondly falter,Presses his without reproof;Leads her to the village altar,And they leave her father's roof.'I can make no marriage present;Little can I give my wife:Love will make our cottage pleasant,And I love thee more than life.'They by parks and lodges going,See the lordly castles stand:Summer woods about them blowing,Made a murmur in the land.From deep thought himself he rouses,Says to her that loves him well,'Let us see these handsome housesWhere the wealthy nobles dwell.'So she goes, by him attended,Hears him lovingly converse,Sees whatever fair and splendidLay betwixt his home and hers;Parks with oak and chestnut shady,Parks and ordered gardens great,Ancient homes of lord and lady,Built for pleasure and for state.All he shows her makes him dearer:Evermore she seems to gazeOn that cottage growing nearer,Where they twain will spend their days.O, but she will love him truly!He shall have a cheerful home;She will order all things duly,When beneath his roof they come.Thus her heart rejoices greatly,Till a gateway she discerns.With armorial bearings stately,And beneath the gate she turns;Sees a mansion more majesticThan all those she saw before;Many a gallant gay domesticBows before him at the door.And they speak in gentle murmur,When they answer to his call,While he treads with footsteps firmer,Leading on from hall to hall.And while now she wonders blindly,Nor the meaning can divine,Proudly turns he round and kindly,'All of this is mine and thine.'Here he lives in state and bounty,Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,Not a lord in all the countyIs so great a lord as he.All at once the colour flushesHer sweet face from brow to chin:As it were with shame she blushes,And her spirit changed within.Then her countenance all over,Pale again as death did prove:But he clasped her like a lover,And he cheered her soul with love.So she strove against her weakness,Though at times her spirits sank;Shaped her heart with woman's meekness,To all duties of her rank:And a gentle consort made he,And her gentle mind was such,That she grew a noble lady,And the people loved her much.But a trouble weighed upon her,And perplexed her night and morn,With the burden of an honourUnto which she was not born.Faint she grew, and ever fainter,As she murmured, 'O that heWere once more that landscape painterWhich did win my heart from me!'So she drooped and drooped before him,Fading slowly from his side:Three fair children first she bore him,Then before her time she died.Weeping, weeping late and early,Walking up and pacing down,Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh,Burleigh House by Stamford town.And he came to look upon her,And he looked at her, and said,'Bring the dress, and put it on her,That she wore when she was wed.'Then her people, softly treading,Bore to earth her body drestIn the dress that she was wed in,That her spirit might have rest.
In her ear he whispers gaily,'If my heart by signs can tell,Maiden, I have watched thee daily,And I think thou lov'st me well.'She replies, in accents fainter,'There is none I love like thee.'He is but a landscape painter,And a village maiden she.He to lips that fondly falter,Presses his without reproof;Leads her to the village altar,And they leave her father's roof.'I can make no marriage present;Little can I give my wife:Love will make our cottage pleasant,And I love thee more than life.'They by parks and lodges going,See the lordly castles stand:Summer woods about them blowing,Made a murmur in the land.From deep thought himself he rouses,Says to her that loves him well,'Let us see these handsome housesWhere the wealthy nobles dwell.'So she goes, by him attended,Hears him lovingly converse,Sees whatever fair and splendidLay betwixt his home and hers;Parks with oak and chestnut shady,Parks and ordered gardens great,Ancient homes of lord and lady,Built for pleasure and for state.All he shows her makes him dearer:Evermore she seems to gazeOn that cottage growing nearer,Where they twain will spend their days.O, but she will love him truly!He shall have a cheerful home;She will order all things duly,When beneath his roof they come.Thus her heart rejoices greatly,Till a gateway she discerns.With armorial bearings stately,And beneath the gate she turns;Sees a mansion more majesticThan all those she saw before;Many a gallant gay domesticBows before him at the door.And they speak in gentle murmur,When they answer to his call,While he treads with footsteps firmer,Leading on from hall to hall.And while now she wonders blindly,Nor the meaning can divine,Proudly turns he round and kindly,'All of this is mine and thine.'Here he lives in state and bounty,Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,Not a lord in all the countyIs so great a lord as he.All at once the colour flushesHer sweet face from brow to chin:As it were with shame she blushes,And her spirit changed within.Then her countenance all over,Pale again as death did prove:But he clasped her like a lover,And he cheered her soul with love.So she strove against her weakness,Though at times her spirits sank;Shaped her heart with woman's meekness,To all duties of her rank:And a gentle consort made he,And her gentle mind was such,That she grew a noble lady,And the people loved her much.But a trouble weighed upon her,And perplexed her night and morn,With the burden of an honourUnto which she was not born.Faint she grew, and ever fainter,As she murmured, 'O that heWere once more that landscape painterWhich did win my heart from me!'So she drooped and drooped before him,Fading slowly from his side:Three fair children first she bore him,Then before her time she died.Weeping, weeping late and early,Walking up and pacing down,Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh,Burleigh House by Stamford town.And he came to look upon her,And he looked at her, and said,'Bring the dress, and put it on her,That she wore when she was wed.'Then her people, softly treading,Bore to earth her body drestIn the dress that she was wed in,That her spirit might have rest.
A. Tennyson
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter 'Little prig;'Bun replied,'You are doubtless very big,But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in togetherTo make up a year,And a sphere.And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I'm not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry:I'll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track.Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut.'
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter 'Little prig;'Bun replied,'You are doubtless very big,But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in togetherTo make up a year,And a sphere.And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I'm not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry:I'll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track.Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut.'
R. W. Emerson
Shepherds all, and maidens fair,Fold your flocks up, for the air'Gins to thicken, and the sunAlready his great course has run.See the dew-drops how they kissEvery little flower that is,Hanging on their velvet heads,Like a rope of crystal beads.See the heavy clouds low falling,And bright Hesperus down callingThe dead night from underground,At whose rising, mists unsound,Damps and vapours fly apace,Hovering o'er the wanton faceOf these pastures, where they comeStriking dead both bud and bloom.Therefore from such danger lockEvery one of his loved flock;And let your dogs lie loose without,Lest the wolf come, as a scoutFrom the mountain, and ere dayBear a kid or lamb away;Or the crafty, thievish foxBreak upon your simple flocks.To secure yourselves from these,Be not too secure in ease.So shall you good shepherds prove,And deserve your master's love.Now, good night! may sweetest slumbersAnd soft silence fall in numbersOn your eyelids: so, farewell;Thus I end my evening knell.
Shepherds all, and maidens fair,Fold your flocks up, for the air'Gins to thicken, and the sunAlready his great course has run.See the dew-drops how they kissEvery little flower that is,Hanging on their velvet heads,Like a rope of crystal beads.See the heavy clouds low falling,And bright Hesperus down callingThe dead night from underground,At whose rising, mists unsound,Damps and vapours fly apace,Hovering o'er the wanton faceOf these pastures, where they comeStriking dead both bud and bloom.Therefore from such danger lockEvery one of his loved flock;And let your dogs lie loose without,Lest the wolf come, as a scoutFrom the mountain, and ere dayBear a kid or lamb away;Or the crafty, thievish foxBreak upon your simple flocks.To secure yourselves from these,Be not too secure in ease.So shall you good shepherds prove,And deserve your master's love.Now, good night! may sweetest slumbersAnd soft silence fall in numbersOn your eyelids: so, farewell;Thus I end my evening knell.
J. Fletcher
A true story
A parrot, from the Spanish main,Full young and early caged came o'er,With bright wings, to the bleak domainOf Mulla's shore.To spicy groves where he had wonHis plumage of resplendent hue,His native fruits, and skies, and sun,He bade adieu.For these he changed the smoke of turf,A heathery land and misty sky,And turned on rocks and raging surfHis golden eye.But petted in our climate cold,He lived and chattered many a day:Until with age, from green and goldHis wings grew grey.At last when blind, and seeming dumb,He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,A Spanish stranger chanced to comeTo Mulla's shore;He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech,The bird in Spanish speech replied;Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech,Dropt down, and died.
A parrot, from the Spanish main,Full young and early caged came o'er,With bright wings, to the bleak domainOf Mulla's shore.
To spicy groves where he had wonHis plumage of resplendent hue,His native fruits, and skies, and sun,He bade adieu.
For these he changed the smoke of turf,A heathery land and misty sky,And turned on rocks and raging surfHis golden eye.
But petted in our climate cold,He lived and chattered many a day:Until with age, from green and goldHis wings grew grey.
At last when blind, and seeming dumb,He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,A Spanish stranger chanced to comeTo Mulla's shore;
He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech,The bird in Spanish speech replied;Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech,Dropt down, and died.
T. Campbell
I had a dove, and the sweet dove died;And I have thought it died of grieving:O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tiedWith a silken thread of my own hands' weaving;Sweet little red feet! why should you die—Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?You lived alone in the forest tree,Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas;Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
I had a dove, and the sweet dove died;And I have thought it died of grieving:O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tiedWith a silken thread of my own hands' weaving;Sweet little red feet! why should you die—Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?You lived alone in the forest tree,Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas;Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
J. Keats
O say what is that thing called Light,Which I must ne'er enjoy;What are the blessings of the sight,O tell your poor blind boy!You talk of wondrous things you see,You say the sun shines bright;I feel him warm, but how can heOr make it day or night?My day or night myself I makeWhene'er I sleep or play;And could I ever keep awakeWith me 'twere always day.With heavy sighs I often hearYou mourn my hapless woe;But sure with patience I can bearA loss I ne'er can know.Then let not what I cannot haveMy cheer of mind destroy,Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,Although a poor blind boy.
O say what is that thing called Light,Which I must ne'er enjoy;What are the blessings of the sight,O tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see,You say the sun shines bright;I feel him warm, but how can heOr make it day or night?
My day or night myself I makeWhene'er I sleep or play;And could I ever keep awakeWith me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hearYou mourn my hapless woe;But sure with patience I can bearA loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot haveMy cheer of mind destroy,Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,Although a poor blind boy.
C. Cibber
When I was still a boy and mother's pride,A bigger boy spoke up to me so kind-like,'If you do like, I'll treat you with a rideIn this wheel-barrow.' So then I was blind-likeTo what he had a-working in his mind-like,And mounted for a passenger inside;And coming to a puddle, pretty wide,He tipp'd me in a-grinning back behind-like.So when a man may come to me so thick-like,And shake my hand where once he pass'd me by,And tell me he would do me this or that,I can't help thinking of the big boy's trick-like,And then, for all I can but wag my hat,And thank him, I do feel a little shy.
When I was still a boy and mother's pride,A bigger boy spoke up to me so kind-like,'If you do like, I'll treat you with a rideIn this wheel-barrow.' So then I was blind-likeTo what he had a-working in his mind-like,And mounted for a passenger inside;And coming to a puddle, pretty wide,He tipp'd me in a-grinning back behind-like.So when a man may come to me so thick-like,And shake my hand where once he pass'd me by,And tell me he would do me this or that,I can't help thinking of the big boy's trick-like,And then, for all I can but wag my hat,And thank him, I do feel a little shy.
W. Barnes
A true story
Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?What is't that ails young Harry Gill,That evermore his teeth they chatter,Chatter, chatter, chatter still?Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,Good duffil grey, and flannel fine;He has a blanket on his back,And coats enough to smother nine.In March, December, and in July,'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.At night, at morning, and at noon,'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.Young Harry was a lusty drover,And who so stout of limb as he?His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;His voice was like the voice of three.Old Goody Blake was old and poor;Ill fed she was and thinly clad;And any man who passed her doorMight see how poor a hut she had.All day she spun in her poor dwelling:And then her three hours' work at night,Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,It would not pay for candle-light.Remote from sheltered village green,On a hill's northern side she dwelt,Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,And hoary dews are slow to melt.By the same fire to boil their pottage,Two poor old Dames, as I have known,Will often live in one small cottage;But she, poor woman! housed alone.'Twas well enough when summer came,The long, warm, lightsome summer day,Then at her door the canty dameWould sit, as any linnet gay.But when the ice our streams did fetter,Oh, then how her old bones would shake!You would have said, if you had met her,'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.Her evenings then were dull and dead:Sad case it was, as you may think,For very cold to go to bed,And then for cold not sleep a wink.O joy for her! whene'er in winterThe winds at night had made a rout;And scattered many a lusty splinter,And many a rotten bough about.Yet never had she, well or sick,As every man who knew her says,A pile beforehand, turf or stick,Enough to warm her for three days.Now, when the frost was past enduring,And made her poor old bones to ache,Could any thing be more alluringThan an old hedge to Goody Blake?And now and then, it must be said,When her old bones were cold and chill,She left her fire, or left her bed,To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.Now Harry he had long suspectedThis trespass of old Goody Blake;And vowed that she should be detected—That he on her would vengeance take;And oft from his warm fire he'd go,And to the fields his road would take;And there, at night, in frost and snow,He watched to seize old Goody Blake.And once behind a rick of barley,Thus looking out did Harry stand:The moon was full and shining clearly,And crisp with frost the stubble land.—He hears a noise—he's all awake—Again?—on tip-toe down the hillHe softly creeps—'tis Goody Blake;She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!Right glad was he when he beheld her;Stick after stick did Goody pull:He stood behind a bush of elder,Till she had fill'd her apron full.When with her load she turned about,The by-way back again to take;He started forward with a shout,And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.And fiercely by the arm he took her,And by the arm he held her fast,And fiercely by the arm he shook her,And cried, 'I've caught you then at last!'Then Goody who had nothing said,Her bundle from her lap let fall,And kneeling on the sticks she prayedTo God that is the judge of all.She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,While Harry held her by the arm—'God, who art never out of hearing,O may he never more be warm!'The cold, cold moon above her head,Thus on her knees did Goody pray;Young Harry heard what she had said,And icy cold he turned away.He went complaining all the morrowThat he was cold and very chill:His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,Alas! that day for Harry Gill!That day he wore a riding coat,But not a whit the warmer he:Another was on Thursday bought;And ere the Sabbath he had three.'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,And blankets were about him pinned,Yet still his jaws and teeth they chatter,Like a loose casement in the wind.And Harry's flesh it fell away;And all who see him say 'tis plain,That live as long as live he may,He never will be warm again.No word to any man he utters,A-bed or up, to young or old;But ever to himself he mutters,'Poor Harry Gill is very cold!'A-bed or up, by night or day,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!
Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?What is't that ails young Harry Gill,That evermore his teeth they chatter,Chatter, chatter, chatter still?Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,Good duffil grey, and flannel fine;He has a blanket on his back,And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July,'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.At night, at morning, and at noon,'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Young Harry was a lusty drover,And who so stout of limb as he?His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;His voice was like the voice of three.Old Goody Blake was old and poor;Ill fed she was and thinly clad;And any man who passed her doorMight see how poor a hut she had.
All day she spun in her poor dwelling:And then her three hours' work at night,Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,It would not pay for candle-light.Remote from sheltered village green,On a hill's northern side she dwelt,Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,And hoary dews are slow to melt.
By the same fire to boil their pottage,Two poor old Dames, as I have known,Will often live in one small cottage;But she, poor woman! housed alone.'Twas well enough when summer came,The long, warm, lightsome summer day,Then at her door the canty dameWould sit, as any linnet gay.
But when the ice our streams did fetter,Oh, then how her old bones would shake!You would have said, if you had met her,'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.Her evenings then were dull and dead:Sad case it was, as you may think,For very cold to go to bed,And then for cold not sleep a wink.
O joy for her! whene'er in winterThe winds at night had made a rout;And scattered many a lusty splinter,And many a rotten bough about.Yet never had she, well or sick,As every man who knew her says,A pile beforehand, turf or stick,Enough to warm her for three days.
Now, when the frost was past enduring,And made her poor old bones to ache,Could any thing be more alluringThan an old hedge to Goody Blake?And now and then, it must be said,When her old bones were cold and chill,She left her fire, or left her bed,To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
Now Harry he had long suspectedThis trespass of old Goody Blake;And vowed that she should be detected—That he on her would vengeance take;And oft from his warm fire he'd go,And to the fields his road would take;And there, at night, in frost and snow,He watched to seize old Goody Blake.
And once behind a rick of barley,Thus looking out did Harry stand:The moon was full and shining clearly,And crisp with frost the stubble land.—He hears a noise—he's all awake—Again?—on tip-toe down the hillHe softly creeps—'tis Goody Blake;She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!
Right glad was he when he beheld her;Stick after stick did Goody pull:He stood behind a bush of elder,Till she had fill'd her apron full.When with her load she turned about,The by-way back again to take;He started forward with a shout,And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her,And by the arm he held her fast,And fiercely by the arm he shook her,And cried, 'I've caught you then at last!'Then Goody who had nothing said,Her bundle from her lap let fall,And kneeling on the sticks she prayedTo God that is the judge of all.
She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,While Harry held her by the arm—'God, who art never out of hearing,O may he never more be warm!'The cold, cold moon above her head,Thus on her knees did Goody pray;Young Harry heard what she had said,And icy cold he turned away.
He went complaining all the morrowThat he was cold and very chill:His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,Alas! that day for Harry Gill!That day he wore a riding coat,But not a whit the warmer he:Another was on Thursday bought;And ere the Sabbath he had three.
'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,And blankets were about him pinned,Yet still his jaws and teeth they chatter,Like a loose casement in the wind.And Harry's flesh it fell away;And all who see him say 'tis plain,That live as long as live he may,He never will be warm again.
No word to any man he utters,A-bed or up, to young or old;But ever to himself he mutters,'Poor Harry Gill is very cold!'A-bed or up, by night or day,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!
W. Wordsworth