PMM. *^v^ ^-:^ ip:^ **i j?^ !&i>t '!fe"i*^ ..•fe:i.i'^ BOSTON. ROBERTS BROTHI.RS. 1869. tK By transfer The Hiite House. ILLUSTRATIONS. The Designs are by Winslow Homer and Hammatt Billings. Engraved by W. J. Peirce. Printed by John Wilson and Son. CONTENTS PAGE AUTUMN I HOME FROM A JOURNEY 3 THE WOODSIDE ROAD 5 THE mother's DREAM 7 THE CHILD LOST 9 WHITE IN THE NIGHT II WHITE AND BLUE , . . . . I3 WINTER COMING I4 WINTER WEATHER 16 THE BARS ON THE LANDRIDGE 1 8 THE STREAM SIDE I9 MELHILL FEAST 21 THE DUET 23 I AND THE DOG 24 THE SURPRISE 25 viii CONTENTS PAGE ROUND THINGS 27 A BRISK WIND 28 SHELLBROOK 29 THE WIND AT THE DOOR 30 BY THE MILL IN SPRING 32 HAPPY TIMES 34 GREEN 35 LOWSHOT LIGHT 36 THE BROKEN JUG 37 WELL TO DO 39 THE GROVE 4I WHEN WE WERE YOUNG TOGETHER 42 THE FIELD PATH 45 THE PARROCK 47 SING AGAIN TOGETHER 48 SEASON TOKENS 49 NOT FAR TO GO 5 1 CHANGES 53 DEADNESS OF THE COUNTRY 55 THE BENCH BY THE GARDEN WALL 56 CONTENTS IX PAGE THE STONEN STEPS 58 ON THE HILL 60 THE OLD CLOCK 63 THE WIND UP THE STREAM 64 WORK AND WAIT . 65 NO TWO DAYS ALIKE 67 SEE-SAW 69 THE SISTER AND BROTHERS 7 1 THE REEDS ABOUT THE POOL 73 SUMMER WIND GUSTS 75 A MATCH OF qUESTIONS 77 THE STRING TOKEN . 79 SHEEP IN THE SHADE 80 CLOUDS 81 WORK AFIELD 82 WHEN WE THAT HAVE CHILDREN, WERE CHILDREN 84 PENTRIDGE . 86 SHELTER 88 BY neighbours' DOORS 90 BETWEEN HAYMAKING AND HARVEST 9I X CONTENTS PAGE THE PRIZE WINNERS 93 home's a nest 9S ON THE ROAD I02 MOTHER OF MOTHERS I03 FALLING THINGS I05 THE MORNING MOON I07 JOY PASSING BY HO RIGHTING UP THE CHURCH 112 JOHN TALKING ANGRILY OF A NEIGHBOUR BEFORE AN ECHO 113 THE SHOP OF MEAT-WARE, OR WARES TO EAT. . II5 WALKING HOME AT NIGHT I16 THE KNOLL IlS A WISH FULFILLED 121 AT THE DOOR I23 HILL AND DELL I25 DANIEL AND JANE I26 HOME 130 FELLOWSHIP 132 AIR AND LIGHT I34 CONTENTS XI PAGE MELDON HILL ^S^ SOFT SOUNDS ^3^ THE VOICE AT HOME 14^ THE FIRESIDE CHAIRS 14^ MY FORE-ELDERS ^44 THE LOST LITTLE SISTER 14^ BLACK AND WHITE 14^ COME AND MEET ME ... 15° BED-RIDDEN 15^ THE WINDOW '^S2> PLORATA VERIS LACHRYMIS 155 DO GOOD 157 A UTUMN nrHE long-lighted days begin to shrink, And flowers are thin in mead among The late-shooting grass, that shines along Brook upon brook, and brink bj brink. The wheat, that was lately rustling thick. Is now up in mows that still are new; All yellow before the sky of blue, Tip after tip, and rick by rick. The cuckoo has still'd his woodland sound The swallow no longer wheels around, Dip after dip, and swing by swing. While shooters are roving round the knoll, By wind-driven leaves on quiv'ring grass. Or down where the sky-blue waters pass, Fall after fall, and shoal by shoal ; I AUTUMN Their brown-dappled pointers nimbly trot Bj russet-bough'd trees, while gun-smoke grey Dissolves in the air of sunny day, Reef upon reef, at shot by shot. While now I can walk a dusty mile, I'll take me a day while days are clear, To find a few friends that still are dear. Face upon face, and smile by smile. HOME FROM A JOUR NET "PACK home on mj mare I took m j way< Through hour upon hour of waning day, Where thistles on windy ledges shook, And aspen leaves quiver'd o'er the brook, By slope and by level ambling on. Till day with the sunken sun was gone, And out in the west a sheet of light Was lingering pale — pale in the night. At last, as my mare came snorting near My dwelling, where all things near were dear, The apples were swung in darksome balls. And roses hung dark beside the walls, No cows were about the fields to low. The fowls were at roost in §leeping row, And only the nightingale sang high In moongleamings pale — pale in the sky. Within my old door my lamp was clear. To show me the faces many and dear, HOME FROM A JOURNEY Mj mother's, now dimm'd by life-long care, My wife's, as a wife's, of ten years' wear, My children's, well shapen line by line, One seven, one five, one three years, mine, And one that has come before our sight. His one moon pale — pale in the night. THE WOOD SIDE ROAD AS along bj the wood of rustling beech, And whispering pine without a breach, I went where the gravel road did reach, For men on their way to roam, O, On homeward, or out from home, O. A squire that rode a mare milkwhite. Came on with a lady fair to sight. All gleaming with gold, in blue bedight. On a mettlesome bay to roam, O, On homeward, or out from home, O. For aught that I knew the woody ground That then with their horses' hoofs did sound, Was all their own land to ramble round A half of the day, and roam, O, On homeward, or out from home, O. But then on a ponj-'s tripping pace. There came on a girl with sweetest face, In brown, Avith a hood of grey, to trace THE WOODSIDE ROAD Her roadway so gav, and roam, O, But where, aj^e where was her home. O? Below at the mill, the brook's low shore? Or else at the wheelwright's paint-streak'd doori Or else at the dairy's well-clean'd floor? To start in the day to roam. O. And come before night back home, O. I never would care for gold or land, But only would ask her heart and hand, And one little stable, where might stand Her pony with hay, to roam, O, With mine for her happy home, O. THE MOTHERS DREAM T'D a dream to-night As I fell asleep, Oh ! the touching sight Makes me still to weep : Of mj little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Aye, the child I had. But was not to keep. As in heaven high, I mj child did seek, There, in train, came bj Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight. But they did not speak. THE MOTHERS DREAM Then, a little sad, Came mj child in turn, But the lamp he had, Oh ! it did not burn ; He, to clear mj doubt. Said, half turned about, "Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn." THE CHILD LOST "yyHEN evening is closing in all round, And winds in the dark-bough'd timber sound, The flame of mj candle, dazzling bright, Maj shine full clear — full clear maj shine, But never can show mj child to sight. And warm is the bank, where boughs are still, On timber below the windward hill. But now, in the stead of summer hay. Dead leaves are cast — are cast dead leaves. Where lately I saw my child at play. And oh ! could I see, as may be known To angels, my little maid full grown. As time would have made her, woman tall. If she had lived — if lived had she And not have died now, so j^oung and small. Do children that go to heaven play? Are young that were gay, in heaven gay ? lO THE CHILD LOST Are old people bow'd by weak'ning time. In heaven bow'd, — all bow'd in heaven? Or else are thej all in blissful prime? Yes, blest with all blessings are the blest, Their lowest of good's above our best. So show me the highest soul jou can In shape and mind — in mind and shape Yet far above him is heaven's man. II WHITE IN THE NIGHT A ND John, that by day is down at mill, As soon as the night is come. Goes out from his millgear standing still, For home, all white in the night. And Jenny may wear her white, as out To town she maj^ take her road By day ; but at dusk no more's about Abroad, in white in the night. For though at the brook the bridge is strong, And white as it white can be, That folk in the dark may not go wrong, But see its white in the night. And though the full moon may freely shed Its beams upon gate and wall. And down on the road that people tread They fall, so white in the night. 12 WHITE IN THE NIGHT Yet Jennj at dusk is fearful now, Since once, in the mead alone, She took for a ghost a sheeted cow, Outshown in white in the night. Jenny, the while the moon may gleam, 1 wish jou would come and roam With me, to behold the falling sti-eam In foam so white in the night. For fairer than all the hues of day, Or grass, or the sky of blue, Or blossoms of spring that shine so gay, Are 3'ou in white in the night. ' She danc d in a lecl, and \\oie all new A skirt with a jacket, white and blue." 13 WHITE AND BLUE TV/TY love is of comely height and straight, And comely in all her ways and gait, She shows in her face the rose's hue, And her lids on her eyes, are white on blue. When Elemley club-men walk'd in May, And folk came in clusters every way. As soon as the sun dried up the dew. And clouds in the sky were white on blue. She came by the down with tripping walk. By daisies and shining banks of chalk, And brooks with the crowfoot flow'rs to strew The sky-tinted water, white on blue ; She nodded her head as play'd the band, She tapp'd with her foot as she did stand. She danc'd in a reel, and wore all new A skirt with a jacket, white and blue. I singled her out from thin and stout. From slender and stout I chose her out, And what in the evening could I do But give her my breast-knot white and blue.-* H WINTER COMING T'M glad we have wood in store awhile, For soon we must shut the door awhile, As winterly winds may roar awhile. And scatter the whirling snow. The swallows have now all hied awaj, And most of the flowers have died awaj, And boughs, with their leaves all dried away, Are windbeaten to and fro. Your walks in the ashtree droves are cold, Your banks in the timber'd groves are cold, Your seats on the garden coves are cold. Where sunheat did lately glow. No rosebud is blooming red to-day, No pink for your breast or head to-day, O'erhanging the garden bed to-day. Is nodding its sweet head low. WINTER COMING No more is the swinging lark above, And air overclouded dark above, So baffles the sun's last spark above, That shadows no longer show. So now let jour warm cheek bloom to-night, While fireflames heat the room to-night. Dispelling the flickering gloom to-night. While winds of the winter blow. i6 WINTER WEATHER 'YU'HEN stems of elms may rise in row, Dark brown, from hillocks under snow, And woods may reach as black as night, By sloping fields of cleanest white. If shooters by the snowy rick, Where trees are high, and wood is thick, Can mark the tracks the game may prick, They like the winter weather. Or where may spread the grey-blue sheet Of ice, for skaters' gliding feet. That they uplift, from side to side, Long yards, and hit them down to slide Or sliders, one that totters slack Of limb; and one that's on his back; And one upright that keeps his track. Have fun in winter weather. When we at night, in snow and gloom, May seek some neighbour's lighted room, Though snow may show no path before The house, we still can find the door. WINTER WEATHER And there, as round the brands may spread The creeping fire, of cherry red, Our feet from snow, from wind our head, Are warm in winter weather. Wherever day may give our road. By hills or hollows oversnow'd, By windy gaps, or shelter'd nooks. Or bridged ice of frozen brooks, Still may we all, as night may come, Know where to find a peaceful home, And glowing fire for fingers numb With cold, in winter weather. iS THE BARS ON THE LANDRIDGE nPHE bars on the timber'd ridge outspan The gap where the shining skies maj show The people that clamber to and fro, Woman by woman, man by man. To strangers that once may reach the gap, How fair is the dell beyond the ridge, With houses and trees, and church and bridge, Wood upon wood, and knap by knap. Down here may be pleasant ways to rove. But oh ! 'tis another place behind The bars, that wovild take the most my mind. Orchard by orchard, grove by grove. When under the moon, the bars' smooth ledge, Rubb'd up to a gloss, is bright as glass, And shadows outmark, on dewy grass, Rail upon rail, and edge by edge. Then there is my way, where nightwinds sound So softly on boughs, where lights and shades Are playing on slopes, by hills and glades, Tree upon tree, and mound by mound. THE STREAM SIDE J SAT a little while beside A grejstoned rock, the rugged brow Of our clear pool, where waters glide Bj leaning tree and hanging bough ; In fall, when open air was cool. And skimming swallows left the pool, And glades in long-cast shades did lie Below the jet clear sky. The leaves that through the spring were gay, Were now bj hasty winds that shook Them wither'd off their quiv'ring spray, All borne away along the brook, Without a day of rest around Their mother tree, on quiet ground. But cast away on blast and wave, To lie in some chance grave. When sickness smote poor Mary low. And sent her off her life's old ground. To poor-house, day by day might show Her bread, but not her friends around : 20 THE STREAM SIDE She never fell to lie at rest, At this old place, she liked the best, But went as leaves ofF-sent bj waves, To lie in distant grraves. 31 MELHILL FEAST ^YE up at the feast, bj MelhiU's brow, So softly below the clouds in flight, There swept on the wood, the shade and light. Tree after tree, and bough bv bough. And there, as among the crowd, I took Mj wandering way, both to and fro, Full comely were shapes that day could show, Face upon face, and look by look. And there, among girls on left and right, On one with a winsome smile, I set My looks ; and the more, the more we met Glance upon glance, and sight by sight. The road she had come hy then was soon The one of my paths that best I knew, By glittering gossamer and dew. Evening by evening, moon by moon. 32 MELHILL FEAST First by the door of maidens fair, As fair as the best till she is nigh, Though now I can heedless pass them by, One after one, or pair by pair. Then by the orchards dim and cool, And then along Woodcombe's timber'd side. And then by the meads, where waters glide Shallow by shallow, pool by pool. And then to the house that stands alone With roses around the porch and wall. Where, up hy the bridge, the waters fall Rock under rock, and stone by stone. Sweet were the hopes I found to cheer My heart as I thought on time to come. With one that would bless my happy home, Moon upon moon, and j'ear by year. 23 THE DUET AS late at a house I made mj call A mother and daughter's voices rang. In twotreble songs, thej'^ sweetly sang, Strain upon strain, and fall bj fall. The mother was comelj', still, but staid. The daughter was joung, but womantall, As people come on to great from small. Maid upon child, and wife from maid. And oh ! where the mother, in the train Of years-, may have left her child alone, With no fellow voice to match her own, Song upon song, and strain by strain. May Providence show the way to bring Her voice to be mine, with me to stay, While softly my life may wear away. Summer by summer, spring by spring. / AND THE DOG AS I was wont to straggle out To jour house, oh ! how glad the dog, With low-put nose, would nimbly jog, Along my path and hunt about; And his great pleasure was to run Bj timber'd hedge and banky ledge. And ended where my own begun, At your old door and stonen floor. And there, as time was gliding by. With me so quick, with him so slow. How he would look at me, and blow, From time to time, a whining sigh. That meant, "Now come along the land. With timber'd knolls, and rabbit holes, t can't think what you have on hand, With this young face, in this old place." ?y the spring." Oh ! gay are the new-leaved trees, in the spring, Down under the height, where the skylark may sing; And welcome in summer are tree-leaves that meet On wide-spreading limbs, for a screen from the heat ; And fair in the fall-tide may flutter the few Yellow leaves of the trees that the sky may shine through. But welcomer far than the leaves, is the string On the twig of the oak by the spring. So SHEEP IN THE SHADE TN summer time, I took mj road From stile to stile, from ground to ground. The while the cloudless sunshine glowed. On down and mead, by sun-heat browned, Where slowly round a wide-bent bow The stream wound on, with water low: In hopeful hours that glided on. With me in happiness now gone. And there, below the elm-tree shroud, Where shaded air might cooler swim. There lay a quickly-panting crowd Of sheep, within the shadow's rim, That glided slowly, on and on. Till there they lay, with shadow gone. And oh ! that happy hours should glide Away so soon, with time and tide. There lay a quickly-panting crowd Of sheep, within the shadow's rim." 8i CLOUDS QNRIDING slow, at lofty height, Were clouds in drift along the sky, Of purple blue, and pink, and white. In pack and pile, upreaching higli, For ever changing, as they flew. Their shapes from new again to new. And some like rocks, and towers of stone, Or hills, or woods, outreaching wide; And some like roads, with dust upblown In glittering whiteness off their side, Outshining white, again to fade, In figures made to be unmade. So things may meet, but never stand, In life ; they may be smiles or tears : A joy in hope, and one in hand; Some grounds of grief, and some of fears They may be good, or may be ill, But never long abiding still. 6 82 WORK AFIELD HUSBAND AND WIFE H. A LL daj below, tall trees in row, In trimming boughs, that kept me warm The white chips plaj'ed, about mj blade, In wood that baffled wind and storm ; No voice did rise, but sounds of cows, And birds' thin cries, by tangled boughs,' Where leaves down-shed from beeches red, Had fallen o'er the grassy bank, Or else lay down, all withered brown, By elm-trees up in stately rank. W. I'm sure you must be glad enough To be in warmth, with wind so rough ; And glad to leave the chirping birds. To hear a tongue that talks with words. W. When you shall sway at mowing hay, And elm-tree groves shall all be dried. And Stour below shall wander slow With ofllttering waves at eventide; WORK AFIELD 83 Or corn in load, on red-wheel rims, Shall grind the road, or brush tree-limbs, The while the bell in tower maj tell, 'Tis time to shut jour day's work out, And jou may flag, and hardly drag Your labour-wearied limbs about. Why then, before the fall is come. Your little girl will hail you home. H. Ay, I shall leave the sounds of birds. To hear Poll's prattling tongue, with words. 84 WHEN WE THAT HAVE CHILDREN, WERE CHILDREN AH ! where the hedge across the hill With high-grown boughs did grow, And ashes' limbs were widely spread, With up-grown tips, above our head, And out and in, with broken brink. The brook ran on below. As wind-blown leaves were driven dry In drifts, we hastened through The grove, where frost jet lingered white, In shadows cast bv winter light, To reach our homely house ere night Should hide our path from view. As you might touch, with nimble tips Of toes, the ground, so fleet In whirling wind, would gather strong Behind the frock you swept along The ruddy leaves, and lift them up In leaps, behind your feet. WHJSN WE THAT HAVE CHILDREN S^ But now, again, in treading trim Our track, the same old way, We both walk on with slower gait, On feet that bear our full-grown weight, And leave our little children's toes To leap, and run in play. 86 PENTRIDGE (^i) TTOW happy the evenings, when I, in my pride, Here walked on with you and some more at my side, Your cousin, and Harry, and Mary that died. (2) In summer with dew. (i) As lively as larks, down the slope of the hill, We tripp'd on to Pentridge, where down at the mill, The Stour-driven wheel is again standing still. (2) In summer with dew, where cows were at rest, / And over the water, and over the grass, / And over the road, that again we shall pass, Blew softly a wind from the west, (i) The house that, atPentridge, then yielded its smoke, Was mossy 's an elm, but as firin as an oak. To shelter the glossy-haired heads of its folk, (2) In summer with dew. (i) But now, where the wall-blossom hung, is no wall. And now, M'here the cattle were fed, is no stall. And now, on the ground of the house-floor, may fall In summer the dew, (2) where blossom is white, And over the rushes, and over the sedge. And over the path froin the river's green edge, Blows softly the wind of the night. PENT RIDGE 87 (i) And now, if we go to the mill down below The hill, where the slow-gliding waters jet flow, Or the fields where in boyhood I went to and fro, Tn summer with dew : Whereto? Of the house we shall find not a trace. To whom? Of mj kindred we find not a face. For what? For mj business is far from the place, In summer with dew, (2) and swallows on wing. While on by the stile, and along by the bank, And on by the lane, with the elm-trees in rank, Blows softly the wind of the spring. \ S8 SHELTER AS lately I wound up the slope, along under The trees, where the cows lay asleep all asunder, The moon seem'd, above me, to float in cloud-streamings, As over its face they would flit in its beamings, And I went between The two woods in the gloom, When may-leaves were green, And the thorn was in bloom. The wind, as along in the lea I did wander, Blew loud over head, to sound lower out yonder, And sweep by the roof that might hide the dull sleeper, Or shut up the much-tossing head of the weeper. Till once more his sight Might behold, in the grounds. Dewy morning's red light. And should hear the day's sounds. And there, as the wind-blasts might sweep on, and ramble Bj^ hedges, and swing in a swoop on the bramble, SHEL TER S9 And down in the mead round the ricks thej were raving, While blossomj boughs on the rocks were all waving, ^ I joj'ed in the blast With its high-swelling roar, While the trees that I pass'd Were all guides to my door. 90 BT NEIGHBOURS' DOORS AS up on trees' high limbs, The western sunshine glowed, And down bj river brims The wind-blown ripples flowed. There we did seek the tun Whei-e evening smoke rose grev, While dells begun to miss the light of day. The mother-holden child. Before the gate, would spring, And crow, and struggle wild At sight of birds on wing ; And home-bound men would shout And make their game, before The girls come out in clusters at the door. Then we'd a door where all Might gather to their rest, When pale-beam'd stars might fall Above the red-skj'd west, But now, from that old door We all have taken flight, And some no more can tell the day from night. 91 BETWEEN HAYMAKING AND HARVEST (JOHN AND HIS FRIENd) y. 'T'HE sunsped hours, with wheeling shades, Have warm'd, for month on month, the glades, Till now the summer wanes ; Though shadows quiver down below The boughs, that loftj elm-trees throw Across the dusty lanes ; F. and docks, With ruddj stems, have risen tall Beside the cow-forsaken stall, All free of hoofj hocks. J. Along the swath with even side, The meadow flow'rs have fall'n and died. And wither'd, rustling dry; And in between the hay-wale's backs, The waggon wheels have cut their tracks, With loads of hay built high. BETWEEN HAYMAKING AND HARVEST F. and bound, And ev'ry rick with peaked crown, Is now down-toned to j^ellow brown, And sunburnt, two-thirds round. y. The clouds now ride at upper height, Above the barlej yellow white ; By lane and hedge; along The fields of wheat, that ripen red, And slowly reel, with giddy head, In wind that streams full strong, F. by copse, And grass-field, where the cows lie down Among the bent-grass, ruddy brown. And thistles' purple tops. y. So come while sheep, now shorn, may run Clean white, below the yellow sun. In daisy beds ; before The swinging hook may come to shear The yellow wheat with nodding ear, Come, welcome, to my door. F. I'll rest Beside the clover-whiten'd knap, With weary hand upon my lap, One day 3'our happy guest. 93 THE PRIZE WINNERS Speakers. — The Teller (T.) of the Cleveburn winners in games at another village. The Teller's Chorus {T. C.) of two or three young men come home with him. The Full Chorus {F. C.) of village hearers. T. O^^ CLEVEBURN for ever! Go, ringers, and turn The brown tower door on its greystonen durn, And take every man in his uphanging hands The ropes' twisted strands F. C. What now, then? what now? T. And ring up a peal ; for you ought to be proud Of your brothers, and sons. Come and cheer tliem aloud ; For the men of old Cleveburn will bring from the feast Three prizes at least. 94 THE PRIZE WINNERS, T. C. Now guess for the three. T. 'Tis sprjfootedjim, and 'tis broadshoulder'd Joe, And young Willj that jumps like a winglifted crow, By the tall ashen tree. F. C. Here's a clap for each chap, then ; hurrah ! T. There Jim, with five others, went off with a bound From the line, on the grass ; like a hare-hunting hound. With outreach ing breast ; and with looks that no face Could turn from the race. F. C. Well done, Jim ! well done ! T. And they shot through the tree-shades, like birds on the wing. And could hear but one gush of the rock-leaping spring; And a rook they outstripp'd, with their flight on the ground, Turned hopeless around. THE PRIZE WINNERS % T. C. And spiyfooted Jim Came in quicklj-panting. Math red-blooming face, The first bj a nose — aj a head — aj a pace, The sleekest of lim.b. F. C. Here's a cheer, he should hear, then ; hurrah ! T. Then on came the light-footed jumpers, to bound, For height in the air, and for length on the ground ; And they sprang with their legs to their thighs gather'd back, Till they pitch'd, falling slack. F. C. Well done, then ! well done ! T. And they mark'd a long air-track, and settled as tight As a rook in a field, from a few j^ards of flight ; Though one would pitch backward, and one pitch ahead. And one with firm head. T. C. But, in jumping, young Bill Outstripped all the crew; and his heel smothered low The head of a flow'r that had no other blow, From a foot by the hill. 96 THE PPdZE WINNERS F. C. Good strokes, merry folks, then; hurrah! T. Then on came the boats, up the river's broad face, Each plovighing a furrow of foam, in its race. While the oarsmen fell back, and their two oars would turn To sweep back astern, F. C. Well done, then ! well done ! T. Or else as the down-leaning rowers would bow, Their oars flew ahead for new water to plough ; As they floated by wHlow, or ivy-hung rock, Or by herd, or by flock. T. C. But broadshoulder'd Joe, With the heat on his brow, and an oar in each fist, Rush'd in with the first of the crews on the list That did row F. C. Well done, every son ! then, hurrah ! T. So let Will leap the brook, where no bridge may be placed. And not stay to climb over bars in his haste, But over them bound, ay, and over them fly, In his shoes ankle high. "But broadshoulder'd Joe, With the heat on his brow, and an oar in each fist. THE PRIZE WINNERS 97 F. C. Well done, Will ! well done ! T. And Jim run the fields of old Cleveburn, a match ; For a hound in full run, or the hare he would catch, And Joe row his boat up the stream, with a weight Of the girls for a freight. T. C. Ay; jump, run, and row; For who among us is ashamed to belong To Cleveburn, with men that are sprj and are strong As Bill, Jim, and Joe ? I^. C. It is done ; thej have won ; then, hurrah ! 7 98 HOME'S A NEST A Father {F.) and a Neighbour or Chorus of Neighbours (C) F. UERE under the porch's grey bow, All mj children have shot to and fro, With a sleek little head. C Home's a nest. F. Here are windows where hills, in the blue Of the sky, so long shone to their view, And the sun's evening red — darted in, And the nooks where their toetips all sprang And the walls and the places that rang With their high-screaming din. C. Home's a nest; O home is a nest of the spring, Where children may grow to take wing. F. As small-footed maidens here walk'd By their mother, their little tongues talk'd To her downlooking face. C Home's a nest. HOME'S A NEST 99 P. And the bojs trotted oh at mj side, With the two-steps thej put to one stride Of my big-footed pace : — and noAV each Is withdrawn from our side and our hand, And the oldest as far as the land Of old England may reach. C. Home's a nest; A nest where the young folk are bred Up, to take on the work of the dead. F. And here, when the boys had begun At their sisters with bantering fun. How brisk was each tongue C. Home's a nest. F. Of the girls, who could very soon find How to pay off their brothers in kind. Whether older or young, — and now each Has his own day of life, and his door, While his words and his doings no more To the others may reach. C. Home's a nest. Where babes may grow women and men, For the rearing of children again. F. There straight-gaited John, that can show How to handle a sword with a foe, lOO HOME'S A NEST Is a comely young man : C. Home's a nest. F. And he swings a good blade by a hand That has hit a few blows for his land. And the merrj^-soul'd Ann; — oh! a dear, She is wedded, and taken to turn Her own cheeses, and roll her own chvirn. But a good way from here. C. Home's a nest. Where our children grow up to take on Our own places, when we are all gone. P. There is dapper j^oung Joe, that has made A good jobbing in cattle, his trade. Is so skilful of mind, C. Home's a nest, F. That the while any bullock might blare, He would know her all round, ev'ry hair; And my Fanny, so kind — and so mild, That I often would hope she might stay At my hearth, she is taken away, Ay, my Fanny, dear child ! C. Home's a nest. All forsaken, when children have flown, Like a nest in bush-top alone. HOME'S A NEST lOl J^. There is Jim, that the neighbours all round Made their pet, is now gone, and is bound To a very good trade. C. Home's a nest. F. Though his head is as thoughtless, a lout, As the ball he would hit so about, In the games that thej play'd, — and he's near; But my Willie is gone from my door, And too far to come back any more, Any more to come here. C. Home's a nest. Where our children are bred to fulfil Not our own, but our Father's good will. I03 ON THE ROAD CTILL green on the limbs of the oak were the leaves. Where the sloe daily grew, with its skin-bloom of Though in fields, summer-burnt, stood the bent-grass, well brown'd, And the stubble of wheatfields was withering white, While sooner the sunlight now sank from the sight, And longer now linger'd the dim-roaded night. But bright was the daylight that dried up the dew, As the foam-water fiU'd the wide pool in its fall, And as I came to climb, by the chalk of the cliff. The white road full steep to the wayfaring step, Wliere along hy the hill, with a high-beating breast, Went the girl or the man to the feast in their best. There the horse would prance by, with his neck a high bow, And would toss up his nose over outspringing knees; And the ox, with sleek hide, and with low-swimming head ; And the sheep, little kneed, with a quickdipping nod; And a girl, with her head carried on in a proud Gait of walking, as sinooth as an air-swimming cloud. 03 MOTHER OF MOTHERS "DY summer and fall, and by tide upon tide, The apple-tree stems may lean lower aside. And the loosening bricks, out in orchard, may fall On the tree-begloom'd grass, from the long-sided wall. And the bank-sweeping water, with shock upon shock. May wash down the tongue of dry ground at the rock; And old folks, once gay And sprightly of limb. With eyes wearing dim, May now stoop on their way. There's an old leaning stone in the churchyard, bespread With the scales of grey lichen above a green bed. With the name of a mother that few or that none Now alive e'er beheld by the light of the sun — Aye, a mother of mothers, from older to young, To the mother that worded my own little tongue, And found the wall sound. And apple-trees trim. And play'd on the brim That is wash'd from the ground. I04 MOTHER OF MOTHERS Oh ! now could she come, as we all have been told She walk'd in her thne, of the comeliest mould, And show us, as what we may see in a dream, Her looks and her smiles by the twilighted stream, Where star-beams may twinkle through leaves of the oak, And tell us her tales of her old fellow folk That here have liv'd on. In joy or in woe, From sprightly to slow. And from blooming to wan. What maid was belov'd or what woman was bride. Who droop'd in their grief or upstraighten'd with pride, Who knelt in the church, putting head beside head, Who stood to the children or mourn'd for the dead. Who milk'd at the dairy in long-shaded light. Who knelt up to thatch the round rick's peaked height. What mower was strong, Or Avhat haymaker quick. Who play'd the best trick. Or who sans: the best sonsf. lO- FALLING THINGS IN THEIR SEASONS TN sunny time, when people pass \ By leafy trees and flow'ry grass, ' And swallows' wings, with sweeping tipsT* O'ershoot the streams in swinging dips. / And pale-green scales of elm-trees strew The road below the dusty shoe, I When bloom of May, In scales of white, ^ May whirl their flight By lambs at play. Then we awhile, By path and stile, May stroll a mile Where Stour may stray. In fall, when ash-tree keys flj' free, To whirl below their mother tree, Or winged pods, from time to time. Fly spinning off the spreading lime; Io6 FALLING THINGS Or thistledown is rolling light, To pitch and ri^e in fitful flight; When leaves offshed From yellow boughs, Pitch down by cows Of yellow red, Where Stour maj'- wind ; We still shall find A joy of mind Above its bed. And there's a tide, when rain will fall From dripping eaves of rick or stall. Or snow-flakes, whirling down, ra^y roll From windy bank to windless hole, And tip the post with ice, and fill. With icy dust the road up hill ; When storms fly dark, Or patt'ring hail May beat the rail, Or trees' wet bark ; And then, through all That there may fall, I'll come and call By Woodcombe Park. io7 THE MORNING MOON "pWAS when the op'ning dawn was still, I took my lonely road, up hill, Toward the eastern sky, in gloom, Or touch'd with palest primrose bloom ; And there the moon, at morning break, Though yet unset, was gleaming weak. And fresh'ning air began to pass, All voiceless, over darksome grass, Before the sun Had yet begun To dazzle down the mornmg moon. By Maycreech hillock lay the cows. Below the ash-trees' nodding boughs. And water fell, from block to block Of mossy stone, down Burncleeve rock, By poplar-trees that stood, as slim 'S a feather, by the stream's green brim ; And down about the mill, that stood Half darken'd off below the wood, The rambling brook, From nook to nook, Flow'd on below the morn"ng moon. oS THE MORNING At mother's house I made a stand, Where no one stii-r'd with foot or hand; No smoke above the chimney reek'd, No winch above the well-mouth creak'd •, No casement open'd out, to catch The air below the eaves of thatch ; Nor down before her cleanly floor Had open'd back her heavj^ door; And there the hatch. With fasten'd latch, Stood close, below the morning moon : And she, dear soul, so good and kind, Had holden long, in my young mind Of holy thoughts, the highest place Of honour, for her love and grace. But now my wife, to heart and sight. May seem to shine a fuller light; And as the sun inay rise to view, To dim the moon, from pale to blue, My comely bride May seem to hide My mother, now my morning moon. But still 'tis wrong that men should slight, By day, the midnight's weaker light, THE MORNING MOON 1 09 That show'd them, though its gleams were dim, Where roads had risk of life or limb ; And though the day mj wife has made May shine in joy without a shade, So long's my life shall hold in flight. By sunsped day and moonskied night, Still never let My heart forget My mother, now my morning moon. no JOT PASSING BT VYHEN ice all melted to the sun, And left the wavy streams to run, We long'd, as summer came, to roll In river foam, o'er depth and shoal ; And if we lost our loose-bow'd swing, We had a kite to pull our string; Or, if no ball Would rise or fall With us, another joj was nigh Before our joy all pass'd us by. If leaves of trees, that wind stripp'd bare At morning, fly on evening air, We still look on for summer boughs To shade again our sunburnt brows. Where orchard blooms' white scales maj^ fall, May hang the apple's blushing ball. New hopes come on For old ones gone. As day on day may shine on high, Until our joys all pass us by. JOY PASSING BY III Mj childhood yearn'd to reach the span Of boyhood's life, and be a man ; And then I look'd, in manhood's pride, For manhood's sweetest choice, a bride; And then to lovely children, come To make my home a dearer home. But now my mind Can look behind For joy, and wonder, with a sigh. When all my joys have pass'd me by. Was it when once I miss'd a call To rise, and thenceforth seem'd to fall, Or when my wife to my hands left Her few bright keys, a doleful heft, Or when before the door I stood To watch a child away for good, Or where some crowd In mirth was loud. Or where I saw a mourner sigh. Where did my joy all pass me by. 112 RIGHTING UP THE CHURCH "DRIGHT was the morning and bright was the moon, Bright was the forenoon and bright was the noon, Bright was the road down the sunshiny ridge. Bright was the water and bright was the bridge ; Bright in the light were two eyes in my sight, On the road that I took up to Brenbury Tow'r : The eyes at iny side were my Fanny's, my bride, The day of my wedding, my wedding's gay hour ; So, if you have work in the church to make good, Here's my bit of silver to buy stone or wood. Here we took up our child, to be bound by a vow To his Saviour, and mark'd with the cross on his brow : While his soft little face, and two hands, were in sight, But the rest of his shape under long folds of white, And with little blue eyes, to the blue of the skies ; There blinking, look'd upward our dear little boy That his mother would call, while he'd no name at all. Her "Dear" and her "Pretty," her "Love" and her "Joy": So, if you would put the old building to rights, I will pay for a stroke^- you shall have my two mites. « . \ Here we took up our cliild, to be bound by a vow- To his Saviour, and mark'd with the cross on his brow. JOHN TALKING ANGRILT OF A .NEIGHBOUR BEFORE AN ECHO \YHO is he ? I should like to be told ; What is he? I should wish him to show; Why the Brines' name will stand good for gold, While the Browns are a set that none know. Echo. No, no. No, I'm not asham'd of my place; No, I'm not asham'd of mj name ; No, I can well hold up my face. While he must hang his down for shame. Echo. For shame ! Since now he bestrides an old mare. His lips, O with pride how they pout! Though his feet once trudged about bare. When I had a horse to ride out. Echo. I doubt. 114 JOHN TALKING ANGRILY No, he's not too safe from a fall : If a half I am told is but true, I could very soon make him look small, With a tvirn I could very well do. Echo. Well do. His pride would have come to an end Long ago, as it must bje-and-bje. If I had not stood for his friend As I did, and the greater oaf I. Echo. O fie ! I may be ^ little foreright, But I never would do on the sly Little doings, not fit for the light; You will never find me in a lie. Echo. A lie. il THE SHOP OF ME AT- WARE OR WARES TO EAT (The complaint of a hoLisemotlier wlio keeps a Inixter's shop) "DY selling meat-ware I shall get no meat; I must not keep a shop of wares to eat. I have some goods, but I can hardly think That thej are sold as quickly as they shrink; I have some goods, but yet my little stocks Will waste away, like camphor in a box. Some hand, at whiles, steals in, and slyly slips Some little thing away for some two lips. You people here don't wait for gain of trade, But take the store before the gain is made. I had some eggs, and I can miss some eggs, And I don't think they went without some legs. I had some eggs, and some have left my store, And I don't think they travell'd out of door ; I had some eggs, and eggs have gone from hence, And I don't think they brought me any pence ; I had some eggs, as yet I know full well ; I bought some eggs, but now have none to sell. ii6 WALKING HOME AT NIGHT HUSBAND TO WIFE YOU then for me made up your mind To leave yowr rights of home behind. Your width of table-rim, and space Of fireside floor, your sitting-place, And all your claim to share the best, Of all the house, with all the rest, To guide for me, mj house, and all Mj home, though small my home mav be. Come, hood jour head; the wind is keen. Come this side — here : I'll be vour screen. The clothes your mother put you on Are quite outworn and wholly gone. And now you wear, from crown to shoe, What my true love has bought you new, That now, in comely shape, is shown, My own will's gift, to deck my own ; And oh! of all I have to share, For your true share a half is small. WALKING HOME AT NIGUT II y Come, hood jour head ; wrap up, now do. Walk close to me : I'll shelter jou. And now, when we go out to spend A frosty night with some old friend, And ringing clocks may tell, at last, The evening hours have fled too fast, No forked roads, to left and right, Will sunder us, for night or light; But all my woe 's for you to feel, And all my weal 's for you to know. Come hood your head. You can't see out.'' I'll lead you right, you need not doubt. iiS THE KNOLL (The speaker, who hves by the knoll, talks to an old friend) Q HOME, people tell us, is home be it never so homely, And Meldon's the home where my fathers all sleep by the knoll. And there they have left me a living, in land, where, in summer, My hay, wither'd grey, awaits hauling in heap, by the knoll. And there, among bright-shining grass-blades, and bent-grass, in autumn, My cows may all lie near the waters that creep by the knoll. And up on the slope of the hillocks, by white-rinded ash-trees. Are ledges of grass and of thyme-beds, with sheep, by the knoll. THE KNOLL HQ And down on the west of my house is a rookery, rocking In trees that will ward off the winds that may sweep by the knoll. And there I have windows outlooking to blushing-skied sunset, And others that face the fresh morning's ^, first peep, by the knoll. f And though there is no place but heaven \ ' without any sorrow, And I, like my fellows in trial, may weep by the knoll, Still, while I fulfil, like a hireling, the day of my labour, I wish, if my wish is not sinful, to keep by the knoll. So, if you can find a day empty of work, with fine weather. And feel yourself willing to climb up the steep by the knoll, I20 THE KNOLL Come up, and we'll make ourselves merry once more, all together; You'll find that your bed and your board shall be cheap by the knoll. 131 A WISH FULFILLED jy/TY longing wishes, wand'ring wild Bejond the good I had, Would hang on other gifts, that pride Might turn from good to bad ; And in mj dream, I still would hope For this green slope, where now the stream Or gives, or takes, with rambling flight, My jutting land, on left or right, Bj dipping downs, at dawn of day, Or dewy dells, when daylight dies. And I have lofty trees to sway, Where western wind may roar Against their bowing heads, to play The softer round my door. As on they pass, and chase the flight Of running light, on shaded grass, And sweep along the shaken sedge, And rustle by the dead-leav'd hedge, By morning meads, or mid-day mound, Or mellow midnight's mounted moon. 122 A WISH FULFILLED And there two cows with wide-horn'd head Now stalk, onstepping slow, And one is dun, and one is red With face as white as snow ; And there, full wide of back, 's my mare. For some long pair of legs to stride, A cunning jade, that now would find Out all my roads if I were blind, By winding ways, on-wand'ring wide. Or wilder waste, or wind-blown wood. And when my work has brought me all Its earnings, day by day. And I have paid each man his call On me for lawful pay, I still can spare enough to grant My wife a jaunt, with weather fair, Or buy my boy a taking toy, Or make a doll my daughter's joy. With limber limbs all lopping loose Or leaning low in little laps. f^-^':\s^ _^^5P.:>»~ " As he may stand and knock with shaking liand, And lean to hear the sweetest voice inside.'' 23 AT THE DOOR HTHE waters roll, quick-bubbling by the shoal, Or leap the rock, outfoaming in a bow. (^ The wind blows free in gushes round the tree, ^ Along the grove of oaks in double row. Where lovers seek the maidens' evening floor, With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight, Against the door. With iron bound, the wheel-rims roll around, And crunch the crackling flint below their load. The gravel, trod by horses ironshod. All crackles shrill along the beaten road. Where lovers come to seek, in our old place, With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight, The maiden's face. And oh ! how sweet's the time the lover's feet Maj come before the door to seek a bride. As he may stand and knock with shaking hand, And lean to hear the sweetest voice inside ; While there a heart will leap, to hear once more The stip-stsp light, and tip-tap slight, Against the door. 124 ^^ ^^^ DOOR How sweet's the time when we are in our prime, With children, now our care and aye our joj, And child by child may scamper, skipping wild, Back home from school or play-games, girl or boy And there upon the door-stone leap once more. With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight, Against the door. Be my abode, beside some uphill road, Where people pass along, if not abide, And not a place where day may bring no face With kindly smiles, as lonesome hours may glide : But let me hear some friend, well-known before, With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight. Against the door. 125 HILL AND DELL AT John's, vip on Sandhills, 'tis healthy and dry, Though I may not like it, it may be — not I. Where fir-trees are spindling, with tapering tops, From leafy-leav'd fern in the cold stunted copse. And under keen gorsebrakes, all yellow in bloom, The skylark's brown nest is deep-hidden in gloom; And high on the cliff", where no foot ever wore A path to the threshold, 's the sandmartin's door. On waterless heights, while the winds lowly sigh. On tree-climbing ivy, before the blue sky. I think I could hardly like his place as well As my own shelter'd home in the timbery dell, "Where rooks come to build in the high-swaying boughs, And broadheaded oaks yield a shade for the cows ; "Where grey-headed withy-trees lean o'er the brook Of grey-lighted waters that whirl by the nook. And ovAy the girls and the swans are in white, Like snow on grey moss in the midwinter's light. And wind softly drives, with a low rustling sound, By waves on the water and grass on the ground. 26 DANIEL AND JANE IN THE PUMP COURT Daniel (D). Jane (J). Jane's mother (M). Daniel comes over to Jane's, and while talking, pumps the water over the trough upon the pavement. D. UERE ! if I had jour trap and beast, I'd drive jou all to Meldon feast. J. Oh ! very well : bvit did he find The pump a plaything to his mind? There's Daniel plying all his bones, In pumping wet about the stones : And who's to trample, just for sport To you, about this wat'ry court? No, I should only like to shed The water on your empty head. D. And did the frog, as people say. Catch cold of wetted feet, one day? DANIEL AND JANE 127 y. See how his two long armbones sway, And how his peaked elbows plaj. D. The pattens. How about a chap And pattens, out at Oakrow knap ? y. See how he chuckles. Come, tell out What 3'ou can find to grin about. D. We left our pattens, in a stroll We lately took, at Oakrow knoll. y. O ! did we? Well, that must be fun, With pattens out, and home with none. D. We call'd to take them, after dark, Where William Henstone, with a spark Of manhood in his soul, must come Down Oakrow road, to see us home. y. Now you be off. I'll souse a bowl Of buttermilk about your poll. No, I should have no call for traps. To catch the very best of chaps. Not lopping, lolling, long-ear'd louts Like you. D. O no, but Tommy Touts. 128 DANIEL AND JANE y. {slafpi}ig his head at every strong soufid.') Nor drawling, dragging, drowsy drones. D. But Tom, ha! hah! Tom Shaklehoues. M. Whjlauk! whatever is this row? Why Jane, whatever is it now? y. Why, Dan is at his sauce again. D. 'Tis only fun, once now and then. J. He's here to know if we Avould ride To Meldon feast, this Whitsuntide. D. Ay, ISIeldon feast, if yon can spare M. O no, you bring us little gains When your hand shakes our old mare's reins Last month you beat her steaming hide, Till we all thought she must have died. Before a load of people, full Enough for three such mares to pull; A squeezing load of girls and chaps, With some almost in others' laps, And simpering faces up as thick As ever face by face could stick, DANIEL AND JANE 1 29 And work'd the mare along as though She had but bags of down in tow, As jou did whip, and whop, and whack Her panting sides and steaming back. D. But now the load would be but small. We have no Browns at home to haul, And Jane could go with what's his name — y. Why Dan, you silly chap, for shame ! D. There I would only take a few Of your choice, you can tell me who. M. O, well, then, nobody at all. y. Hee, heeh ! D. Hah, hah ! y. Now 3'ou sing small. D. I'll drive the Wellburns, they'll be glad To have me when I can be had. 30 HOME "XATITH the sun glowing warm at its height, And the people at work in white sleeves, And the gold-banded bee in its flight, With the quick-flitting birds among leaves : There mj two little children would run, And would reach and would roll in their fun, And would clasp in their hands, Stick or stone for their plaj, — In their hands that but little had grown. For their plaj, with a stick or a stone. As the sun from his high summer bow, To the west of the orchard would fall, He would leave the brown beehives in row. In the shade of the houses' grej wall. And the flowers, outshining in bloom, Some in light, and some others in gloom, To the cool of the air, And the damp of the dew, — The air from the apple-tree shades. And the dew on the grasses' green blades. 1 HOME I. And there was my orchard well-tined, With a hedge, and a steep-sided bank; Where ivy had twin'd on the rind Of the wood-stems, and trees in high rank, To keep out the wide lipped cow, And the stiff-snouted swine that would plough Up the sott-bladed grass. By the young apple-trees — The grass that had grown a good height, \ t And the trees that in blossom were white. O Avhen is a father's good time. That will yield to his toil the best joy? Is it when he is spending his prime For his children, the girl and the boy? Or when they have grown to their height, And are gone from his hearing and sight. And their mother's one voice Is left home at the door — A voice that no longer may sing, At the door that more seldom may swing? 132 FELLOWSHIP ^^AT'ELL here, another year, at least, We go along with blinking sight. By smoky dust arising white, Up off our road, to Lincham feast. With trudging steps of tramping feet, We souls on foot, with foot-folk meet : For we that cannot hope to ride For ease or pride, have fellowship. And so, good father tried to show To folk with hands on right or left, Down-pull'd by some great bundle's heft. And trudging wearj', to or fro : That rich men are but one to ten When reckon'd off with working men, And so have less, the while the poor Have ten times more of fellowship. He thought, good man, whatever part We have to play, we all shall find Tl\at fellowship of kind with kind Must keep us better up in heart. FELLOWSHIP 133 And why should working folk be shy Of work, with mostly work-folk by, While kings must live in lonesome states With none for mates in fellowship?* Tall chimneys up with high-flown larks, And houses, roods in length, with sights Of windows glaring off in lights, That shoot up slopes of wood-bound parks. Are far and wide, and not so thick As poor men's little homes of brick, By ones or twos, or else in row So small and low, in fellowship. But we, wherever we may come. Have fellowship in hands and loads, And fellowship of feet on roads. And lowliness of house and home ; And fellowship in homelj^ fare. And homely garb for daily wear. And so may Heaven bless the more The working poor in fellowship. * Xenoplion, in his Hiero, chap, vii., makes the king say to Simoni- des : — "I wish to show you those pleasures which I enjoyed while I was a common man ; and now, since I have been a king, I feel I have lost. I was then among my fellows, and happy with them as they were happy with me." 134 AIR AND LIGHT AH ! look and see how widely free O'er all the land the wind will spread ; If here a tree-top sways, a tree On 3ronder hillock waves its head. How wide the light outshows to sight The place and living face of man? How far the river runs for lip To drink, or hand to sink and dip. But one may sink with sudden Avoe That may not pass, in wider flight, To other souls, declining slow, And hush'd, like birds at fall of night. And some are sad, while some are glad ; In turn we all may mourn our lot : And days that come in joy may go In evenings sad with heavy woe. The morning sun may cast abroad His light on dew about our feet, And down below his noontide road The streams may glare below his heat; AIR AND LIGHT 1 35 The evening light may sparkle bright Across the quiv'ring gossamer; But I, though fair he still may glow, Must miss a face he cannot show. 136 MELD ON HILL J TOOK the road of dusty stone . To walk alone, by Meldon Hill, Along the knap, with woody crown, That slopes far down, by Meldon Hill ; While sunlight overshot the copse Of underwood, with brown-twigg'd tops. By sky-belighted stream and pool, With eddies cool, by ISIeldon Hill. And down below were many sights Of yellow lights, by Meldon Hill ; The trees above the brindled cows. With budding boughs, by Meldon Hill ; And bridged roads and waterfalls. And house by house with sunny walls, And one, where somebody may come To guide my home, from Meldon Hill. Whenever I may climb the stiles Of these two miles, to Meldon Hill, By elms above the wreathing smoke, Or lonesome oak, to Meldon Hill, MELD ON II ILL 137 How much I have to talk about ; But that is what must now come out, That I've a house, that some sweet bride Must come to sruide, from Meldon Hill. 138 SOFT SOUNDS AH ! then as we might meet, all young, And trip with nimble feet, abroad, Or else in knots might come, full gay, Along the grove up home. Sis, SIS, the whispers, here and there, Would hiss, from man and maid in pair. Or when the wind, upspringing keen From eastern slopes, would fling about The snow, or overlay the tree And ground with hoar-frost grey, Sis, sis, our nimble steps would sound As we would trip o'er frosty ground. At times, when leaves were dead, and fell Down-scatter'd, browny-red ; or spun In windy rings around our feet, On timber-shaded ground : Sis, sis, our shoes would rustle light On leaves and bentgrass, wither'd white. Sis, sis, our footsteps on the hay Did sound along our summer way." SOFT SOUNDS 139 And when, again, we pass'd along The half-dried hay all cast abroad, In air that smelt full sweet, about Our nimbly-stepping feet : Sis, sis, our footsteps on the hay Did sound along our summer way. And still may joy betide us all, Though scatter'd far and wide away ; And may we find, by grace, that now. Wherever be our place, Teek, hee shall be our merry sound Along the road or grassy ground. 140 THE VOICE AT HOME 'pHOUGH black the winter clouds might rise To back the rick's brown tip, Though dark might reach the leafless hedge, And bark of trees might drip, With health and work and livelihood, I never pin'd for others' good. And down along the timber'd grove. All bi-own with leaves long shed. Where round the ivj-hooded thorn The ground was dry to tread, I then would walk in home, with pride, On foot, and heedless who might ride. And come from evening's chilly shades. In home, I took, at night. My place within the settle's back, With face in fire-light, Where one would spread my evening board With soul-besfuiling smile and word. THE VOICE AT HOME Then high above the chimney top, Might crj the wind, and low Might sound, beside vay window panes, And round my porch's bow, Its sounds that now so sadly moan Where one sweet voice no more is known. How sweetly seem'd the running waves To meet the mossy rock. As quickly-flapping flames might play By tickings of the clock ; But now their sounds are sad to hear, Since one sweet tongue no more is near. 142 THE FIRESIDE CHAIRS HUSBAND TO WIFE HTHE daylight gains upon the night, And birds are out in later flight; 'Tis cold enough to spread our hands, Once now and then, to glowing brands. So now we two are here alone To make a quiet hour our own. We'll take, with face to face, once more Our places on the warm hearth floor. Where jou shall have the window view Outside, and I can look on you. When first I brought you home, my bride, In yellow glow of summer tide, I wanted yo\x to take a chair On that side of the fire — out there — And have the ground and sky in sight, With face against the window light; While I, back here, should have my brow In shade, and sit where I am now; That you might see the land outside, And I might look on you, my bride. THE FIRESIDE CHAIRS 1 43 And there the gliding waters spread, Bj waving elm-trees over head, Below the hill that slopes above The path, along the high-treed grove. Where sighing winds once whisper'd down Our whisper'd words ; and there's the crown Of DuncUffe hill, where widening shades Of timber fall on sloping glades : So you enjoj' the green and blue Without, and I will look on you. And there we puU'd, within the copse, With nutting-crooks the hazel tops, That now arise, unleaved and black. Too thin to keep the wind-blast back; And there's the church, and spreading lime, Where we did meet at evening time, In clusters, on the beaten green, In glee, to see and to be seen ; All old sights, welcomer than new, And look'd on, as I look'd on you. 144 MT FORE-ELDERS "^HEN from the Child that still is led By hand, a father's hand is gone — Or when a few-jear'd mother, dead. Has left her children, growing on — When men have left their children staid, And thej again have boy and maid — Oh ! can they know, as years may roll, Their children's children, soul by soul. If this, with souls in Heav'n, can be. Do my fore-elders know of me ? My elders' elders, man and wife, Were borne full early to the tomb, With children, still in childhood life. To play with butterfly or bloom. And did they see the seasons mould Their faces on, from young to old ; As years might bring them, turn by turn, A time to laugh or time to mourn. If this with souls in Heav'n can be, Do my fore-elders know of me.'' MY FORE-ELDERS 145 How fain I now would walk the floor Within their mossy porch's bow, Or linger by their church's door, Or road that bore them to and fro. Or nook where once they built their mow, Or gateway open to their plough — Though now, indeed, no gate is swung. That their live hands had ever hung — If I could know that they would see Their child's late child, and know of me. 146 THE LOST LITTLE SISTER r~)N summer nights, as day did gleam. With waning light, from red to wan, And we did play above the stream. That near our house-lawn rambled on, Our little sister lightly flew And skipp'd about, in all her pride Of snow-white frock and sash of blue, A shape that night was slow to hide — Beside the brook, that trickled thin Among the pebbles, out and in. When wind may blow, at evening-tide, Now here, now there, by mound and nook, It may be on the leafy lime, Or grey-bough'd withy by the brook, Or on the apple-trees may fall. Or on the elms, beside the grove. Or on the lofty tower's wall, On places where we used to rove — Then ev'ry sound, in ev'ry place, Will call to mind her pretty face. THE LOST LITTLE SISTER 147 Where periwinkle's buds of blue. Bj lilies' hollow cups maj wind, What, then, can their two colours do. But call our sister back to mind? She wore no black — she wore her white, She wore no black — she wore her blue. She never mourn'd another's flight, For she has been the first that flew, From where our nimble feet did tread. From stone to stone, the water's bed. hS BLACK AND WHITE "RY the wall of the garden that glimmer'd, chalk white, In the light of the moon, back in INIav, There were jou all in black, at mj side, coming round On the ground where the cypress did sway : Oh I the white and the black. Which was fairest to view? Why the black, become fairest on yow. By the water downfalling in man}' a bow, White as snow, on the rock's peakj^ steep ; There your own petted cow show'd the ridge of her back, Of deep black, as she lay for her sleep : Oh! the white and the black. Which was fairest to view "i Why the black, become fairest on you. When you stroll'd down the village at evening, bedight All in white, in the warm summer-tide, The while Towsy, your loving old dog, with his back Sleeky black, trotted on at your side : Ah! the black and the white. Which was fairest to view? Why the white, become fairest on you. BLACK AND WHITE 1 49 At the end of the barton the granary stood, Of black wood, with white geese at its side ; And the white-winged swans, on the quick-running wave, By the cave of black darkness did glide : Oh ! the black and the white. Which was fairest to view? Why the white, become fairest on you. 50 COME AND MEET ME HUSBAND TO WIFE VyELL, to day, then, I shall roll off on the road Round by Woodcombe, out to Shellbrook, to the mill; With mj brand-new little spring-cart, with a load, To come loadless round by Chalk-hill, at my will : As the whole day will be dry, By the tokens of the sky. Come to meet me, with the children, on the road. For the sunshine, from the blue sky's hollow height, Now is glitt'ring on the stream-wave, and the sedge; And the orchard is a broad sheet of the white Of new blossom, over blossom on the hedge : So when clock-bells ring out four, Let them send you out of door, Come to meet me, with the children, on the road. You can saunter, if I'm lated by the clock. To some blue-bells, for the children, on the ridge; Or can loiter by the tree-shades, on the rock Where the water tumbles headlong by the bridge : i'M\\l' ' ^f --\^ " Or can loiter by the tree-shades, on the rock Where the water tumbles headlong by the bridge." COME AND MEET ME ^S^ While the boy's line and his hook May catch minnows in the brook, Out to meet me, with his sister, on the road. You may dawdle, for a furlong on a-head, And be welcome at the Weldons, on the knap, Where the cowslips are so close grown in a bed, That our Poll's hands will have soon fiU'd up her lap, For a toss-ball, up as big As her small head's curly wig. Out to meet me, with her brother, on the road. At the time, then, I have told you, you may hear M}^ two wheel-rims and four horse-shoes on the road, And the spring-cart with the seat up, near and near, To spin you home, with the children, for its load. So come out, then, to the sun, With the children, for a run : Come and meet me, with the children, on the road. 152 BED-RIDDEN 'THE sun may in glorj go bj, Though by cloudiness hidden from sight: And the moon may be bright in the sky, Though an air-mist may smother its light. There is joy in the world among some, And among them may joy ever be; And oh ! is there health-joy to come, Come any more unto me ? The stream may be running its way, Under ice that lies dead as the stone, And below the dark water may play The quick fishes in swimmings unshown, There is sprightliness shown among some, Aye, and sprightly may they ever be, And oh ! is there limb-strength to come, Come any more unto me ? 53 THE WINDOW (Grounded on a Neapolitan ballad, " Fenesta che lucive e mo non luce. BROTHER AND SISTER B. p^ERE come I back, and find her window fast And faceless. Sister, can she be unwell? 5". O brother, 'tis a heavj truth to tell. Your Jessie has been ill. Her days are past. Forego your hope to take her to your side, She could not linger here to be your bride. B. Oh ! Sister dear, whatever are your words ! Dear sister, oh! whatever do you say! 6". If you believe me not, behold the day. How downcast are its clouds, how still its birds : O no, I tell you only what is true. The house can show no Jessie Dean to you. B. O Jessie Dean, and thou art dead, art gone, Thj' eyes now closed, shall look no more on me, But thou to mine art ever fair to see ; As I have loved thee, I shall love thee on. 154 ^^^^ ivJXDOW And oh! how willingly could I have died, And gone at once to slumber by thy side. Farewell, dear window. Now be shut all day, Since Jessie sits no more behind thy glass : And I, below thee, now no more will pass, But henceforth go along the churchyard way, Till I myself be called at last to share The angel life of Jessie, angel fair. 155 PL OR ATA VERJS LACHRl'MIS r\ NOW, mj true and dearest bride, Since thou hast left mj lonely side, Mj life has lost its hope and zest. The sun rolls on from east to west, But brings no more that evening rest, Thj loving-kindness made so sweet, And time is slow that once was fleet. As day by day was waning. The last sad day that show'd thee lain Before me, smiling in thy pain, The sun soar'd high along his way To mark the longest summer day, And show to me the latest play Of thy sweet smile, and thence, as all The days' lengths shrunk from small to small, My joy began its waning. And now 'tis keenest pain to see Whate'er I saw in bliss with thee. The softest airs that ever blow, The fairest days that ever glow, Unfelt by thee, but bring me woe. 156 PL GRATA VERIS LACIUiYMIS And sorrowful I kneel in praj'r, Which thou no longer, now, canst share, As day by day is waning. How can I live my lonesome days ? How can I tread my lonesome ways ? How can I take my lonesome meal ? Or how outlive the grief I feel ? Or how again look on to weal ? Or sit, at rest, before the heat Of winter fires, to miss thy feet, When evening light is waning. Thy voice is still I lov'd to hear, Thy voice is lost I held so dear. Since death unlocks thy hand from mine, No love awaits me such as thine ; Oh ! boon the hardest to resign ! But if we meet again at last In heav'n, I little care how fast My life may now be waning. ^57 DO GOOD ^H ! child ! the stream that bnn| To thirsty lips their drink, Is seldom drain'd; for springs Pour water to its brink. The wellsprings that supply The streams, are seldom spent, For clouds of rain come by To pay them what they lent. The clouds that cast their rain On lands that yield our food, Have water from the main, To make their losses good. The sea is paid by lands, With streams from ev'ry shore ; So give with kindly hands. For God can give yon more. 58 DO GOOD He would that in a ring His blessings should be sent, From living thing to thing, But nowhere staid or spent. And ev'ry soul that takes, But yields not on again. Is so a link that breaks In Heaven's love-made chain. Cambridge : Press of John Wilsun & Son. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 386 095 4