IX.Medley.

Silent nymph, with curious eye!Who, the purple evening, lieOn the mountain’s lonely van,Beyond the noise of busy man;Painting fair the form of things,While the yellow linnet sings;Or the tuneful nightingale,Charms the forest with her tale;Come, with all thy various hues,Come, and aid thy sister Muse;Now, while Phœbus riding high,Gives luster to the land and sky!Grongar Hill invites my song,Draw the landscape bright and strong;Grongar, in whose mossy cells,Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;Grongar, in whose silent shade,For the modest Muses made,So oft I have, the evening still,At the fountain of a rill,Sat upon a flowery bed,With my hand beneath my head,While stray’d my eyes o’er Towy’s flood,Over mead and over wood,From house to house, from hill to hill,Till Contemplation had her fill.About his checker’d sides I wind,And leave his brooks and meads behind,And groves and grottoes where I lay,And vistas shooting beams of day.Wide and wider spreads the vale,As circles on a smooth canal.The mountains round, unhappy fate!Sooner or later, of all height,Withdraw their summits from the skies,And lessen as the others rise.Still the prospect wider spreads,Adds a thousand woods and meads;Still it widens, widens still,And sinks the newly-risen hill.Now I gain the mountain’s brow,What a landscape lies below!No clouds, no vapors intervene,But the gay, the open scene,Does the face of Nature showIn all the hues of heaven’s bow!And, swelling to embrace the light,Spreads around beneath the sight.Old castles on the cliffs arise,Proudly tow’ring in the skies!Rushing from the woods, the spiresSeem from hence ascending fires!Half his beams Apollo shedsOn the yellow mountain heads!Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,And glitters on the broken rocks!Below me trees unnumbered rise,Beautiful in various dyes:The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,The yellow beach, the sable yew,The slender fir that taper grows,The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs,And beyond the purple grove,Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!Gaudy as the opening dawnLies a long and level lawn,On which a dark hill, steep and high,Holds and charms the wandering eye!Deep are his feet in Towy’s flood,His sides are cloth’d with waving wood,And ancient towers crown his brow,That cast an awful look below;Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,And with her arms from falling keeps;So both, a safety from the wind,On mutual dependence find.’Tis now the raven’s bleak abode;’Tis now th’ apartment of the toad;And there the fox securely feeds;And there the poisonous adder breeds;Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds;While, ever and anon, there falls,Huge heaps of hoary molder’d walls.Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low,And level lays the lofty brow—Has seen this broken pile complete,Big with the vanity of state;But transient is the smile of Fate!A little rule, a little sway,A sunbeam in a winter’s day,Is all the proud and mighty haveBetween the cradle and the grave.And see the rivers how they run,Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,Sometimes swift, sometimes slow—Wave succeeding wave, they goA various journey to the deep,Like human life to endless sleep!Thus is Nature’s vesture wrought,To instruct our wandering thought;Thus she dresses green and gay,To disperse our cares away.Ever charming, ever new,When will the landscape tire the view!The fountain’s fall, the river’s flow,The woody valleys, warm and low;The windy summit, wild and high,Roughly rushing on the sky!The pleasant seat, the ruin’d tower,The naked rock, the shady bower;The town and village, dome and farm,Each gives each a double charm,As pearls upon an Ethiop’s arm.See on the mountain’s southern side,Where the prospect opens wide,Where the evening gilds the tide;How close and small the hedges lie!What streaks of meadow cross the eye!A step, methinks, may pass the stream,So little distant dangers seem;So we mistake the Future’s face,Ey’d through Hope’s deluding glass;As yon summits soft and fair,Clad in colors of the air,Which to those who journey near,Barren, brown, and rough appear;Still we tread the same coarse way,The present’s still a cloudy day.O may I with myself agree,And never covet what I see;Content me with an humble shade,My passions tamed, my wishes laid;For while our wishes wildly roll,We banish quiet from the soul:’Tis thus the busy beat the air,And misers gather wealth and care.Now, ev’n now, my joys run high,As on the mountain-turf I lie;While the wanton Zephyr sings,And in the vale perfumes his wings;While the waters murmur deep;While the shepherd charms his sheep;While the birds unbounded fly,And with music fill the sky,Now, ev’n now, my joys run high.Be full, ye courts; be great who will;Search for Peace with all your skill:Open wide the lofty door,Seek her on the marble floor.In vain you search; she is not here!In vain you search the domes of Care!Grass and flowers, Quiet treads,On the meads and mountain-heads,Along with Pleasure, close allied,Ever by each other’s side;And often, by the murmuring rill,Hears the thrush, while all is stillWithin the groves of Grongar Hill.John Dyer, 1700–1758.

Silent nymph, with curious eye!

Who, the purple evening, lie

On the mountain’s lonely van,

Beyond the noise of busy man;

Painting fair the form of things,

While the yellow linnet sings;

Or the tuneful nightingale,

Charms the forest with her tale;

Come, with all thy various hues,

Come, and aid thy sister Muse;

Now, while Phœbus riding high,

Gives luster to the land and sky!

Grongar Hill invites my song,

Draw the landscape bright and strong;

Grongar, in whose mossy cells,

Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;

Grongar, in whose silent shade,

For the modest Muses made,

So oft I have, the evening still,

At the fountain of a rill,

Sat upon a flowery bed,

With my hand beneath my head,

While stray’d my eyes o’er Towy’s flood,

Over mead and over wood,

From house to house, from hill to hill,

Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checker’d sides I wind,

And leave his brooks and meads behind,

And groves and grottoes where I lay,

And vistas shooting beams of day.

Wide and wider spreads the vale,

As circles on a smooth canal.

The mountains round, unhappy fate!

Sooner or later, of all height,

Withdraw their summits from the skies,

And lessen as the others rise.

Still the prospect wider spreads,

Adds a thousand woods and meads;

Still it widens, widens still,

And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain’s brow,

What a landscape lies below!

No clouds, no vapors intervene,

But the gay, the open scene,

Does the face of Nature show

In all the hues of heaven’s bow!

And, swelling to embrace the light,

Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,

Proudly tow’ring in the skies!

Rushing from the woods, the spires

Seem from hence ascending fires!

Half his beams Apollo sheds

On the yellow mountain heads!

Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,

And glitters on the broken rocks!

Below me trees unnumbered rise,

Beautiful in various dyes:

The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,

The yellow beach, the sable yew,

The slender fir that taper grows,

The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs,

And beyond the purple grove,

Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!

Gaudy as the opening dawn

Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, steep and high,

Holds and charms the wandering eye!

Deep are his feet in Towy’s flood,

His sides are cloth’d with waving wood,

And ancient towers crown his brow,

That cast an awful look below;

Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,

And with her arms from falling keeps;

So both, a safety from the wind,

On mutual dependence find.

’Tis now the raven’s bleak abode;

’Tis now th’ apartment of the toad;

And there the fox securely feeds;

And there the poisonous adder breeds;

Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds;

While, ever and anon, there falls,

Huge heaps of hoary molder’d walls.

Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low,

And level lays the lofty brow—

Has seen this broken pile complete,

Big with the vanity of state;

But transient is the smile of Fate!

A little rule, a little sway,

A sunbeam in a winter’s day,

Is all the proud and mighty have

Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers how they run,

Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,

Sometimes swift, sometimes slow—

Wave succeeding wave, they go

A various journey to the deep,

Like human life to endless sleep!

Thus is Nature’s vesture wrought,

To instruct our wandering thought;

Thus she dresses green and gay,

To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,

When will the landscape tire the view!

The fountain’s fall, the river’s flow,

The woody valleys, warm and low;

The windy summit, wild and high,

Roughly rushing on the sky!

The pleasant seat, the ruin’d tower,

The naked rock, the shady bower;

The town and village, dome and farm,

Each gives each a double charm,

As pearls upon an Ethiop’s arm.

See on the mountain’s southern side,

Where the prospect opens wide,

Where the evening gilds the tide;

How close and small the hedges lie!

What streaks of meadow cross the eye!

A step, methinks, may pass the stream,

So little distant dangers seem;

So we mistake the Future’s face,

Ey’d through Hope’s deluding glass;

As yon summits soft and fair,

Clad in colors of the air,

Which to those who journey near,

Barren, brown, and rough appear;

Still we tread the same coarse way,

The present’s still a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,

And never covet what I see;

Content me with an humble shade,

My passions tamed, my wishes laid;

For while our wishes wildly roll,

We banish quiet from the soul:

’Tis thus the busy beat the air,

And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, ev’n now, my joys run high,

As on the mountain-turf I lie;

While the wanton Zephyr sings,

And in the vale perfumes his wings;

While the waters murmur deep;

While the shepherd charms his sheep;

While the birds unbounded fly,

And with music fill the sky,

Now, ev’n now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will;

Search for Peace with all your skill:

Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor.

In vain you search; she is not here!

In vain you search the domes of Care!

Grass and flowers, Quiet treads,

On the meads and mountain-heads,

Along with Pleasure, close allied,

Ever by each other’s side;

And often, by the murmuring rill,

Hears the thrush, while all is still

Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

John Dyer, 1700–1758.

TO THOMAS PENNANT, ESQ.

FROM REV. GILBERT WHITE, OF SELBORNE.

In the court of Norton farm-house, a manor farm to the northwest of the village, on the White Malms, stood within these twenty years a broad-leaved elm, or wych hazel,ulmus folio latissimo scabro, of Ray, which, though it had lost a considerable leading bough in the great storm in the year 1703, equal to a moderate tree, yet, when felled, contained eight loads of timber; and, being too bulky for a carriage, was sawn off at seven feet above the butt, where it measured near eight feet in diameter. This elm I mention to show to what a bulk planted elms may attain, as this tree must certainly have been such from its situation.

In the center of the village, and near the church, is a square piece of ground, surrounded by houses, and commonly called the Plestor. Sir Adam Gurdon, in conjunction with his wife Constantia, in the year 1271, granted to the prior and convent of Selborne all his right and claim to a certain place,placea, calledLa Pleystow, in the village aforesaid, “in liberam, puram, et perpetuam elimosinam.” This Pleystow,locus ludorum, or play-place, is a level area, near the church, of about forty-four yards by thirty-six, and is known now by the name of the Plestor. It continues still—as it was in old times—to be the scene of recreation for the youths and children of the neighborhood, and impresses an idea on the mind that this village, even in Saxon times, could not be the most abject of places, when the inhabitants thought proper to assign so spacious a spot for the sports and amusements of its young people. In the midst of this spot stood in old times a vast oak, with a short, squat body, and huge horizontal arms extending almost to the extremity of the area. This venerable tree, surrounded with stone steps, and seats above them, was the delight of old and young, and a place of much resort in summer evenings, where the former sat in grave debate, while the latter frolicked and danced before them. Long might it have stood had not the amazing tempest in 1703 overturned it at once, to the infinite regretof the inhabitants and the vicar, who bestowed several pounds in setting it in its place again; but all his care could not avail; the tree sprouted for a time, then withered and died. This oak I mention to show to what a bulk planted oaks also may arrive; and planted this tree must certainly have been, as appears from what is known concerning the antiquities of the village.

On the Blackmoor estate there is a small wood, called Losel’s, of a few acres, that was lately furnished with a set of oaks of a peculiar growth and great value; they were tall and taper like firs, but, standing near together, had very small heads—only a little brush, without any large limbs. About twenty years ago the bridge at the Toy, near Hampton Court, being much decayed, some trees were wanted for the repairs that were fifty feet long without a bough, and would measure twelve inches diameter at the little end. Twenty such trees did a purveyor find in this little wood, with this advantage, that many of them answered the description at fifty feet. These trees were sold for £20 a piece.

In the center of this grove there stood an oak, which, though shapely and tall on the whole, bulged out into a large excrescence about the middle of the stem. On this a pair of ravens had fixed their residence for such a series of years, that the oak was distinguished by the title of the Raven-tree! Many were the attempts of the neighboring youths to get at this eyry; the difficulty whetted their inclinations, and each was ambitious of surmounting the arduous task; but when they arrived at the swelling, it jutted out so in their way, and was so far beyond their grasp, that the most daring lads were awed, and acknowledged the undertaking to be too hazardous. So the ravens built on, nest upon nest, in perfect security, till the fatal day arrived in which the wood was to be leveled. It was in the month of February, when these birds usually sit. The saw was applied to the butt; the wedges were inserted into the opening; the woods echoed to the heavy blows of the beetle or mallet; the tree nodded to the fall; but still the dam sat on. At last, when it gave way, the bird was flung from her nest; and though her parental affection deserved a better fate, was whipped down by the twigs, which brought her dead to the ground.

Gilbert White, 1720–1793.

The rush-thatch’d cottage on the purple moor,Where ruddy children frolic round the door;The moss-grown antlers of the aged oak,The shaggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke;The bearded goat, with nimble eyes that glareThrough the long tissue of his hoary hair,As with quick foot he climbs some ruined wall,And crops the ivy which prevents its fall;With rural charms the tranquil mind delight,And form a picture to th’ admiring sight.Erasmus Darwin, 1721–1802.

The rush-thatch’d cottage on the purple moor,

Where ruddy children frolic round the door;

The moss-grown antlers of the aged oak,

The shaggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke;

The bearded goat, with nimble eyes that glare

Through the long tissue of his hoary hair,

As with quick foot he climbs some ruined wall,

And crops the ivy which prevents its fall;

With rural charms the tranquil mind delight,

And form a picture to th’ admiring sight.

Erasmus Darwin, 1721–1802.

The prettiest cottage on our village green is the little dwelling of Dame Wilson. It stands in a corner of the common, where the hedge-rows go curving off into a sort of bay round a clear bright pond, the earliest haunt of the swallow. A deep, woody green lane, such as Hobbima or Ruysdael might have painted—a lane that hints of nightingales, forms one boundary of the garden, and a sloping meadow the other; while the cottage itself, a low, thatched, irregular building, backed by a blooming orchard, and covered with honeysuckle and jessamine, looks like the chosen abode of snugness and comfort. And so it is.

Mary R. Mitford.

She stood breast high amid the corn,Clasp’d by the golden light of morn,Like the sweetheart of the sun,Who many a glowing kiss had won.On her cheek an autumn flushDeeply ripened: such a blush,In the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.Round her eyes her tresses fell,Which were blackest none could tell;But long lashes vail’d a lightThat had else been all too bright.And her hat with shady brim,Made her tressy forehead dim:Thus she stood amid the stooks,Praising God with sweetest looks.Sure I said, Heav’n did not meanWhere I reap thou shouldst but glean;Lay thy sheaf adown and come—Share my harvest and my home.Thomas Hood.

She stood breast high amid the corn,Clasp’d by the golden light of morn,Like the sweetheart of the sun,Who many a glowing kiss had won.

She stood breast high amid the corn,

Clasp’d by the golden light of morn,

Like the sweetheart of the sun,

Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flushDeeply ripened: such a blush,In the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.

On her cheek an autumn flush

Deeply ripened: such a blush,

In the midst of brown was born,

Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,Which were blackest none could tell;But long lashes vail’d a lightThat had else been all too bright.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,

Which were blackest none could tell;

But long lashes vail’d a light

That had else been all too bright.

And her hat with shady brim,Made her tressy forehead dim:Thus she stood amid the stooks,Praising God with sweetest looks.

And her hat with shady brim,

Made her tressy forehead dim:

Thus she stood amid the stooks,

Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure I said, Heav’n did not meanWhere I reap thou shouldst but glean;Lay thy sheaf adown and come—Share my harvest and my home.Thomas Hood.

Sure I said, Heav’n did not mean

Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;

Lay thy sheaf adown and come—

Share my harvest and my home.

Thomas Hood.

SIMPLE PLEASURES.

Say, why does man, while to his opening sightEach shrub presents a source of chaste delight,And Nature bids for him her pleasures flow,And gives to him alone his bliss to know,Why does he pant for Vice’s deadly charms?Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms?And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath,Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death!Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings,Know what calm joy from purer sources springs;Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strifeThe harmless pleasures of a harmless life,No more his soul would pant for joys impure;The deadly chalice would no more allure;But the sweet potion he was wont to sipWould turn to poison on his conscious lip.H. K. White, 1785–1806.

Say, why does man, while to his opening sight

Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight,

And Nature bids for him her pleasures flow,

And gives to him alone his bliss to know,

Why does he pant for Vice’s deadly charms?

Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms?

And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath,

Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death!

Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings,

Know what calm joy from purer sources springs;

Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife

The harmless pleasures of a harmless life,

No more his soul would pant for joys impure;

The deadly chalice would no more allure;

But the sweet potion he was wont to sip

Would turn to poison on his conscious lip.

H. K. White, 1785–1806.

Ven.On my word, master, this is a gallant trout; what shall we do with him?

Pisc.Marry, e’en eat him to supper: we’ll go to my hostess, from whence we came; she told me, as I was going out of door, that my brother Peter, a good angler, and a cheerful companion, had sent word he would lodge there to-night, and bring a friend with him. My hostess has two beds, and I know you and I may have the best. We’ll rejoice with my brother Peter and his friend, tell tales, or sing ballads, or make a catch, or find some harmless sport to content us, and pass away a little time without offense to God or man.

Ven.A match, good master: let’s go to that house, for the linen looks white, and smells of lavender, and I long to lie in a pair of sheets that smell so. Let’s be going, good master, for I am hungry again with fishing.

Pisc.Nay, stay a little, good scholar; I caught my last trout with a worm. Now I will put on a minnow, and try a quarter of an hour about yonder trees for another, and so walk toward our lodging. Look you, scholar, thereabout we shall have a bite presently, or not at all. Have with you, sir, o’ my word I have hold of him. Oh, it is a great loggerheadedchub; come, hang him upon that willow twig, and let’s be going. But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, toward yonder high honeysuckle hedge; there we’ll sit and sing while this shower falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant meadows.

Look! under that broad beach-tree I sat down when I was last this way a fishing, and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to the brow of that primrose hill; there I sat viewing the silver streams glide silently toward their center, the tempestuous sea, yet sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble-stones, which broke their waves and turned them into foam; and sometimes I beguiled time by viewing the harmless lambs—some leaping securely in the cool shade, while others sported themselves in the cheerful sun; and saw others craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating dams. As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my soul with content, that I thought, as the poet has happily expressed it,

“I was for that time lifted above earth,And possess’d joys not promis’d in my birth.”

“I was for that time lifted above earth,

And possess’d joys not promis’d in my birth.”

As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me; it was a handsome milk-maid, that had not yet attained so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many things that will never be, as too many men too often do; but she cast away all care, and sung like a nightingale: her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it; it was that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid’s mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days.

They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good—I think much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this critical age. Look yonder! on my word, yonder they both be, a milking again. I will give her the chub, and persuade them to sing those two songs to us.

God speed you, good woman! I have been a fishing, and am going to Bleak-Hall to my bed, and having caught more fish than will sup myself and my friend, I will bestow this upon you and your daughter, for I use to sell none.

Milk-W.Marry, God requite you, sir, and we’ll eat it cheerfully; and if you come this way a fishing two months hence, o’ grace of God, I’ll give you a syllabub of new verjuice, in a new-made hay-cock for it, and my Maudlin shall sing you one of her best ballads; for she and I both love all anglers, they be such honest, civil, quiet men. In the mean time, will you drink a draught of red cow’s milk? you shall have it freely.

Pisc.No, I thank you; but I pray do us a courtesy that shall stand you and your daughter in nothing, and yet we will think ourselves still something in your debt: it is but to sing us a song that was sung by your daughter when I last passed over this meadow about eight or nine days since.

Milk-M.What song was it, I pray? Was it, “Come, Shepherds, Deck your Heads?” or “As at Noon Dulcina Rested?” or “Phillida, Flout me?” or “Chevy Chase?” or “Johnny Armstrong?” or “Troy Town?”

Pisc.It is none of those; it is a song that your daughter sung the first part, and you sung the answer to it.

Milk-W.O, I know it now; I learned the first part in my golden age, when I was about the age of my poor daughter; and the latter part—which indeed fits me best now—but two or three years ago, when the cares of the world began to take hold of me; but you shall, God willing, hear them both, and sung as well as we can, for we both love anglers. Come, Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentlemen with a merry heart, and I’ll sing the second when you have done:

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me, and be my love,And we will all the pleasures prove,That hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.There will we sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.There will I make thee beds of rosesWith a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the fairest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull;Slippers lined choicely for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold;A belt of straw, and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs;And if these pleasures may thee move,Then live with me, and be my love.The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,For thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me, and be my love.Christopher Marlow, 1593.

Come live with me, and be my love,And we will all the pleasures prove,That hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.

Come live with me, and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That hills and valleys, dale and field,

And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.

There will we sit upon the rocks,

And see the shepherds feed their flocks

By shallow rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of rosesWith a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

There will I make thee beds of roses

With a thousand fragrant posies;

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the fairest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull;Slippers lined choicely for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold;

A gown made of the fairest wool,

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Slippers lined choicely for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs;And if these pleasures may thee move,Then live with me, and be my love.

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs;

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,For thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me, and be my love.Christopher Marlow, 1593.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,

For thy delight each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

Christopher Marlow, 1593.

Ven.Trust me, master, it is a choice song, and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin. I now see it was not without cause that our good Queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a milk-maid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with fears and cares, but sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all the night; and without doubt honest, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. I’ll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury’smilk-maid’s wish upon her, “That she may die in the spring, and, being dead, may have good store of flowers stuck round about her winding-sheet.”

THE NYMPH’S REPLY.

If that the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,These pretty pleasures might me move,To live with thee and be thy love.But time drives flocks from field to fold,When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,And Philomel becometh dumb,And all complain of cares to come.The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward winter reckoning yield;A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posiesSoon break, soon wither, soon forgotten—In folly ripe, in reason rotten.Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,Thy coral clasps, and amber studs;All these in me no means can moveTo come to thee, and be thy love.But could youth last, and love still breed,Had joys no date, nor age no need,Then those delights my mind might moveTo live with thee, and be thy love.Sir Walter Raleigh, 1552–1618.

If that the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,These pretty pleasures might me move,To live with thee and be thy love.

If that the world and love were young,

And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,

These pretty pleasures might me move,

To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,And Philomel becometh dumb,And all complain of cares to come.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,

When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,

And Philomel becometh dumb,

And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward winter reckoning yield;A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields

To wayward winter reckoning yield;

A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posiesSoon break, soon wither, soon forgotten—In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten—

In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,Thy coral clasps, and amber studs;All these in me no means can moveTo come to thee, and be thy love.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,

Thy coral clasps, and amber studs;

All these in me no means can move

To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,Had joys no date, nor age no need,Then those delights my mind might moveTo live with thee, and be thy love.Sir Walter Raleigh, 1552–1618.

But could youth last, and love still breed,

Had joys no date, nor age no need,

Then those delights my mind might move

To live with thee, and be thy love.

Sir Walter Raleigh, 1552–1618.

Pisc.Well sung, good woman; I thank you. I’ll give you another dish of fish one of these days, and then beg another song of you.

Izaak Walton, 1593–1683.

Behold her single in the field,Yon solitary Highland lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.No nightingale did ever chauntSo sweetly to reposing bandsOf travelers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian lands.No sweeter voice was ever heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird—Breaking the silence of the seas,Among the farthest Hebrides.Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago;Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again?Whate’er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o’er the sickle bending;I listened—motionless and still,And as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I bore,Long after it was heard no more.W. Wordsworth.

Behold her single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chauntSo sweetly to reposing bandsOf travelers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian lands.No sweeter voice was ever heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird—Breaking the silence of the seas,Among the farthest Hebrides.

No nightingale did ever chaunt

So sweetly to reposing bands

Of travelers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian lands.

No sweeter voice was ever heard

In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird—

Breaking the silence of the seas,

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago;Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again?

Will no one tell me what she sings?

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago;

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate’er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o’er the sickle bending;I listened—motionless and still,And as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I bore,Long after it was heard no more.W. Wordsworth.

Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o’er the sickle bending;

I listened—motionless and still,

And as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

W. Wordsworth.

Earth of man the bounteous mother,Feeds him still with corn and wine;He who best would aid a brother,Shares with him these gifts divine.Many a power within her bosom,Noiseless, hidden, works beneath;Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom,Golden ear and cluster’d wreath.These to swell with strength and beautyIs the royal task of man;Man’s a king; his throne is duty,Since his work on earth began.Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage—These, like man, are fruits of earth;Stamp’d in clay, a heavenly vintage,All from dust receive their birth.Barn and mill, and wine-vat’s treasures,Earthly goods for earthly lives;These are Nature’s ancient pleasures—These her child from her derives.What the dream, but vain rebelling,If from earth we sought to flee?’Tis our stored and ample dwelling—’Tis from it the skies we see.Wind and frost, and hour and season,Land and water, sun and shade,Work with these, as bids thy reason,For they work thy toil to aid.Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness!Man himself is all a seed;Hope and hardship, joy and sadness—Slow the plant to ripeness lead.John Sterling, 1844.

Earth of man the bounteous mother,Feeds him still with corn and wine;He who best would aid a brother,Shares with him these gifts divine.

Earth of man the bounteous mother,

Feeds him still with corn and wine;

He who best would aid a brother,

Shares with him these gifts divine.

Many a power within her bosom,Noiseless, hidden, works beneath;Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom,Golden ear and cluster’d wreath.

Many a power within her bosom,

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath;

Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom,

Golden ear and cluster’d wreath.

These to swell with strength and beautyIs the royal task of man;Man’s a king; his throne is duty,Since his work on earth began.

These to swell with strength and beauty

Is the royal task of man;

Man’s a king; his throne is duty,

Since his work on earth began.

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage—These, like man, are fruits of earth;Stamp’d in clay, a heavenly vintage,All from dust receive their birth.

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage—

These, like man, are fruits of earth;

Stamp’d in clay, a heavenly vintage,

All from dust receive their birth.

Barn and mill, and wine-vat’s treasures,Earthly goods for earthly lives;These are Nature’s ancient pleasures—These her child from her derives.

Barn and mill, and wine-vat’s treasures,

Earthly goods for earthly lives;

These are Nature’s ancient pleasures—

These her child from her derives.

What the dream, but vain rebelling,If from earth we sought to flee?’Tis our stored and ample dwelling—’Tis from it the skies we see.

What the dream, but vain rebelling,

If from earth we sought to flee?

’Tis our stored and ample dwelling—

’Tis from it the skies we see.

Wind and frost, and hour and season,Land and water, sun and shade,Work with these, as bids thy reason,For they work thy toil to aid.

Wind and frost, and hour and season,

Land and water, sun and shade,

Work with these, as bids thy reason,

For they work thy toil to aid.

Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness!Man himself is all a seed;Hope and hardship, joy and sadness—Slow the plant to ripeness lead.John Sterling, 1844.

Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness!

Man himself is all a seed;

Hope and hardship, joy and sadness—

Slow the plant to ripeness lead.

John Sterling, 1844.

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