UlBRARY OF CONGRESS. I 
 
 ^ ^^ # 
 
 ^ UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. ^ 
 
THE 
 
 FARMER'S BOY 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 
 u 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 BROWER. ILVYS & CO., 193 MARKET ST. 
 
 1847. 
 

 PRINTED BY SMIT:; & PETERS, 
 
 Franklin Buildings, Sixth Street below Arch, Philadelphi 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE FARMER'S BOY. 
 
 Preface 9 
 
 Spring 25 
 
 Summer 41 
 
 Autumn 59 
 
 Winter 75 
 
 RURAL TALE3. 
 
 Peace 9' 
 
 Richard and Kate 99 
 
 Walter and Jane 107 
 
 The Miller's Maid 120 
 
 The Widow to her Hour-Glass . . . .136 
 
 Market Night 13b 
 
 The Fakenham Ghost 142 
 
 The French Mariner 147 
 
 Dolly 151 
 
 Lines occasioned by a visit to Wittlebury Forest. 155 
 
 Song . '. lt^l> 
 
 A word to Two young Ladies .... 1C3 
 On hearing of the Translation of part of the 
 Farmer's Boy into Latin, by the Rev. Mr. C. . 10.^ 
 
 Nancy 166 
 
 Rose Hannah 168 
 
 The Shepherd and his Dog Rover . . .170 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Hunting Song 172 
 
 Lucy J74 
 
 Winter Song 176 
 
 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Abner and the Widow Jones . . . .183 
 
 My Old Oak Table 195 
 
 The Horkey 200 
 
 The Broken Crutch 209 
 
 Shooter's Ui'.l 221 
 
 Mary'9 Evening Sigh 229 
 
 Barnham Water 231 
 
 The Woodland Halloo ...... 234 
 
 On reviewing the place of my Nativity . . .236 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 Robert Bloomfield was born at Honington, near 
 Bury, in the county of Suffolk, on the 3d of December, 
 1776. Ills mother being left a widow, with a family 
 of six children, and in straitened circumstances, Ro- 
 bert had no other instruction during his boyhood ex- 
 cept what he received from herself, and at the age of 
 eleven, he was obliged to enter into the service of a 
 neighbouring farmer. Here, however, it was found 
 that his small and delicate frame was unfitted for any 
 kind of agricultural labour ; upon which he was sent 
 to London, to learn the trade of a shoemaker, from 
 his elder brother, who was settled there as a journey- 
 man. But while he was employed at his work-stall, 
 or in running errands for the workmen, the aspiring 
 boy showed the innate force of his genius. It was in 
 a garret in London, and amid the incessant hammer- 
 ing of six or seven workmen, that he composed his 
 Farmer's Boy. The MS. accidentally attracted the 
 attention of Mr. Capel Lofft, and that gentleman, 
 charmed by the beauties of the poem, sought the 
 author, and by his influence was the poem published, 
 and with such great success, that many editions were 
 
 (5) 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 called for, and it was ranked among the first produc- 
 tions of the day. 
 
 Notwithstanding our author acquired fame by his 
 poetical efforts, he continued very poor, — he was of » 
 liberal disposition, and valued money only for the pur 
 pose of relieving his poor relations. He died in Bed 
 fordshire, on the 19th of August, 1823 
 
THE FARMER'S BOY. 
 
 (7) 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 Having the satisfaction of introducing to the Public 
 this very pleasing and characteristic poem, The Far- 
 mer's Boy, I think it will be agreeable to preface it 
 with a short account of the manner in which it came 
 into my hands : and, which will be much more inte- 
 resting to every Reader, a little History of the Author, 
 which has been communicated to me by his Brother, 
 and which I shall very nearly transcribe as it lies be- 
 fore me . 
 
 In November last year I received a MS. which I 
 was requested to read, and to give my opinion of it. 
 It had before been shown to some persons in London : 
 whose indifference toward it may probably be explain- 
 ed, when it is considered that it came to their hands 
 under no circumstances of adventitious recommenda- 
 tion. With some, a person must be rich, or tkled, or 
 fashionable as a literary name, or at least fashionable 
 in some respect, good or bad, before any thing which 
 he can offer will be thought worthy of notice. 
 
 I had been a little accustomed to the effect of preju- 
 dices : and I was determined to judge, in the only just 
 and reasonable way, of the work, by the work itself. 
 
 At first I confess, seeing it divided into the four Sea- 
 
 (9) 
 
10 PREFACE. 
 
 sons, I had to encounter a prepossession not very ad- 
 vantageous to any writer, that the author was tread- 
 ing in a path already so admirably trod by Thomson ; 
 and might be adding one more tc an attempt already 
 so often, but so injudiciously and unhappily made, of 
 transmuting that noble poem from blank verse into 
 rhyme— from its own pure native gold into an alloyed 
 metal of incomparably less splendour, permanence, and 
 worth. 
 
 I had soon, however, the pleasure of finding myself 
 relieved from that apprehension ; and of discovering 
 that, although the delineation of Rural Scenery natu- 
 rally branches itself into these divisions, there was 
 little else except the general qualities of a musical ear, 
 flowing numbers, feeling, piety, poetic imagery, and 
 animation, a taste for the picturesque, a true sense of 
 the natural and pathetic, force of thought, and liveli- 
 ness of imagination, which were in common be- 
 tween Thomson and this author. And these are qua- 
 lities which whoever has the eye, the heart, the 
 awakened and surrounding intellect, and the diviner 
 eense of the Poet, which alone can deserve the name, 
 must possess. 
 
 But, with these general characters of true Poetry, 
 The Farmer's Boy has, as I have said, a character 
 of its own. It is discriminated as much as the circum- 
 stances and habits, and situation, and ideas conse- 
 quently associated, which are so widely diverse in the 
 two authors, could make it different. Simplicity, 
 sweetness, a natural tenderness, that mnlle atque face- 
 turn, which Horace celebrates in the Eclogues of Vir- 
 pil, will be found to belong to it. 
 
PKEFACE. 11 
 
 I intend some farther and more particular critical 
 remarks on this charming performance. But I now 
 pass to the account of the Author himself, as given me 
 by his brother : — a man to whom also I was entirely a 
 stranger: — but whose candour, good sense, and bro- 
 therly affection, appear in this narrative ; and of the 
 justness of whose understanding, and the goodness of 
 his heart, I have had many proofs, in consequence of 
 a correspondence with him on different occasions 
 which have since arisen, when this had made me ac- 
 quainted wit!i him, and interested me in his behalf. 
 
 In writing to me, Mr. George Bloomfield, who is a 
 shoemaker also, as his brother, and lives at Bury, thus 
 expresses himself: 
 
 "As I spent tive years with the Author, from the 
 time he was thirteen years and a half old till he was 
 turned of eighteen, the most interesting time of life, (1 
 mean the time that instruction is acquired, if acquired 
 at all,) I think I am able to give a better account of 
 him than any one can, or than he can of himself: for 
 his modesty would not let him speak of his temper, di^s- 
 position, or morals. 
 
 " Robert was the younger child of George Bloomfield, 
 a tailor, at Honington. His father died when he was 
 an infant under a year old. His mother was a school- 
 mistress, and instructed her own children with the 
 others. He thus learned to read as soon as he learned 
 to speak. 
 
 "Though the mother was left a widow with six 
 small children, yet with the help of friends she ma- 
 naged to give each of them a little schooling. 
 
12 PREFACE. 
 
 "Robert was accordingly sent to Mr. Rodwell, of 
 Ixworth, to be improved in writing : but he did not go 
 to that school more than two or three months, nor was 
 ever sent to any other ; his mother again marrying 
 when Robert was about seven years old. By her se- 
 cond husband, John Glover, she had another family. 
 
 "When Robert was not above eleven years old, the 
 late Mr. W. Austin, of Sapiston, took him. And 
 though it is customary for farmers to pay such boys 
 only Is. 6d. per week, yet he generously took him into 
 the house. This relieved his mother of any other ex- 
 pense than only of finding him a few things to wear; 
 and this was more than she well knew how to do. 
 
 "She wrote, therefore," Mr. G. Bloomfield conti- 
 nues, " to me and my brother Nat. (then in London,) 
 to assist her — mentioning that he, Robert, was so small 
 of his age, that Mr. Austin said, he was not likely to 
 get his living by hard labour." 
 
 Mr. G. Bloomfield on this informed his mother that, 
 if she would let him take the boy with him, he would 
 take him, and teach him to make shoes: and Nat. pro- 
 mised to clothe him. The mother upon this ofier took 
 coach and came to London, to Mr. G. Bloomfield, with 
 the boy : for she said, she never should have been 
 happy if she had not put him herself into his hands. 
 
 "She charged me," he adds, ''■as I valued a mother's 
 blessing-, to watch over him, to set good examples foi 
 him, and never to forget that he had lost his father." 
 I religiously confine myself to Mr. G. Bloomfield'sown 
 words, and I think I should wrong all the parties con- 
 cerned if in mentioning this pathetic and successful 
 admonition, I were to use any other. 
 
13 PREFACE. 
 
 Mr. G. Bloomfield then lived at Mr. Simm's, No. 7, 
 Fislier's-court, Bell-alley, Coleman-street. " It is cus- 
 tomary," he continues, "in such houses as are let to 
 poor people in London, to have light garrets fit for me- 
 chanics to work in. In the garret, where we had two 
 turn-up beds, and five of us worked, I received little 
 Robert. 
 
 " As we were all single men, lodgers at a shilling per 
 week each, our beds were coarse, and all things far 
 from being clean and snug, like what Robert had left 
 at Sapiston. Robert was our man, to fetch all things 
 to hand. At noon he fetched our dinners from the 
 cook's shop : and any one of our fellow workmen that 
 wanted to have any thing fetched in, would send him, 
 and assist in his work and teach him, for a recompense 
 for his trouble. 
 
 " Every day, when the boy from the public-house 
 came for the pewter-pots, and to hear what porter was 
 wanted, he always brought the yesterday's newspaper^ 
 The reading of the paper we had been used to take by 
 turns ; but after Robert came, he mostly read for us,— 
 because his time was of least value. 
 
 " He frequently met with words that he was unac- 
 quainted with : of this he often complained. I one 
 day happened at a book-stall to see a small dictionary, 
 which had been very ill used. I bought it for him for 
 4d. By the help of this he in a little time could read 
 and comprehend the long and beautiful speeches of 
 Burke, Fox, or North. 
 
 *" One Sunday, after a whole day's stroll in the coun- 
 try, we by accident went into a dissenting meeting- 
 
14 PREFACE. 
 
 house in the Old Jewry, where a gentleman was lec- 
 turing. This man filled little Robert with astonishment. 
 The house was amazingly crowded with the most gen- 
 teel people ; and though we were forced to stand still 
 in the aisle, and were much pressed, yet Robert al- 
 ways quickened his steps to get into the town on a 
 Sunday evening, soon enough to attend this lecture. 
 
 " The preacher lived somewhere at the west end of 
 the town — his name was Fawcet. His language," 
 says Mr. G. Bloomfield, "was just such as the Ram- 
 bler is written in ; his action, like a person acting a 
 tragedy ; his discourse rational, and free from the cant 
 of Methodism. Of him Robert learned to accent what 
 he called hard words; and otherwise improved him- 
 self ; and gained the most enlarged notions of Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 "He went sometimes with me to a Debating Society 
 at Coachmaker's hall, but not often ; and a few times 
 to Covent Garden Theatre. These are all the oppor- 
 tunies he ever had to learn from public speakers. As 
 to books, he had to wade through two or three folios : 
 a History of England, British Traveller, and a Geo- 
 graphy. But he always read them as a task, or to 
 oblige us wlio bought them. And as they came in six- 
 penny numbers weekly, he had about as many hours 
 to read as other boys spend in play. 
 
 "I at that time," proceeds his brother, "read the 
 London Magazine ; and in that work about two sheets 
 were set apart for a Review — Robert seemed always 
 eager to read this Review. Here he could see what 
 the Literary Men were doing, and learn to judge of the 
 
PREFACE. 15 
 
 merits of the works that came out. And I observed 
 that he always looked at the Poet's Corner. And one 
 day he repeated a song which he composed to an old 
 tune. I was much surprised that a boy of sixteen 
 should make so smooth verses : so I persuaded him to 
 try whether the editor of our paper would give them a 
 place in Poet's Corner. And he succeeded, and they 
 were printed. And as I forget his other early produc- 
 tions, I shall copy this. 
 
 THE MILK-MAID, ON THE FIRST OF MAY. 
 
 Hail, May ! lovely May 1 how replenished my pails I 
 The young dawn overspreads the east streak'd with 
 gold! 
 My glad heart beats time to the laugh of the vales, 
 And Colin's voice rings through the woods from 
 the fold. 
 
 The wood to the mountain submissively bends, 
 Whose blue misty summits first glow with the sun ! 
 
 See thence a gay train by the wild rill descends 
 To join the glad sports !— hark : the tumult's begun. 
 
 Be cloudless, ye skies ! — Be my Colin but there. 
 Not the dew-spangled bents on the wide level dale, 
 
 Nor morning's first blush, can more lovely appear 
 Than his looks, since my wishes I could not conceal. 
 
 ?\vift down the mad dance, while blest health prompts 
 to move, 
 We'll count joys to come, and exchange vows of 
 truth ; 
 
16 PREFACE. 
 
 And haply, when age cools the transports of love, 
 Decry like good folks the vain pleasures of youth. 
 
 No, no, the remembrance shall ever be dear ! 
 
 At no time Love vi'ith innocence ceases to charm : 
 It is transport in youth, and it smiles through the tear. 
 
 When they feel in their children its first soft alarm.* 
 
 "I remember." says Mr. G. Bloomfield, continuing 
 his narrative, " a little piece which he called the Sai- 
 lor's Return : in which he tried to describe the feelings 
 of an honest tar, who, after a long absence, saw his 
 dear native village first rising into view. This too ob- 
 tained a place in the Poet's Corner. 
 
 " And as he was so young," his brother proceeds, 
 " it shows some genius in him, and some industry, to 
 have acquired so much knowledge of the use of words 
 in so little time. Indeed at this time myself and my 
 
 * The writer of this Preface doubts whether he has 
 been successful in adding the last stanza to this beau- 
 tiful and simply expressive song. But he imagined 
 that some thought of this kind was in the mind of the 
 Author ; and he was willing to endeavourto express 
 it. The breast which has felt love, justly shrinks 
 from the idea of its total extinction, as from annihila- 
 tion itself. And there is even a high social and moral 
 use in that order of Providence which exalts sensa- 
 tions into tender and benign passions ; those passions 
 into habitual affections yet more tender ; and raises 
 from those affections virtues the most permanent, the 
 most necessary and beneficent, and most endearing: 
 thus expanding the sentiment into all the charities of 
 domestic and social life. 
 
PREFACE. 17 
 
 fellow workmen in the garret began to get instructions 
 from him, though not more than sixteen years old. 
 
 " About this time there came a man to lodge at our 
 lodgings that was troubled with fits. Robert was so 
 much hurt to see this poor creature drawn into such 
 frightful forms, and to hear his horrid screams, that I 
 was forced to leave the lodgings. We went to Blue 
 Ilart-court, Bell-alley. In our new garret we found a 
 singular character, James Kay, a native of Dundee. 
 He was a middle-aged man, of a good understanding, 
 and yet a furious Calvinist. He had many bcJbks,— 
 and some which he did not value ; such as the Sea- 
 sons, Paradise Lost, and some novels. These books 
 he lent to Robert ; who spent all his leisure hours in 
 reading the Seasons, which he was now capable of 
 reading. I never heard him give so much praise to 
 any book as to that. 
 
 " I think it was in the year 1784 that the question 
 came to be decided between the Journeymen Shoe- 
 makers; whether those who had learned without 
 serving an apprenticeship could follow the trade. 
 
 "The man by whom Robert and I were employed, 
 Mr. Chamberlayne, of Cheapside, took an active part 
 against the lawful journeymen, and even went so far 
 as to pay off every man that worked for him that had 
 joined their clubs. This so exasperated the men, 
 that their acting committee soon looked for unlawful 
 men (as they called them) among Chamberlayne'a 
 workmen." 
 
 They found out little Robert, and threatened to prc^ 
 secute Chamberlavne for employing him, and to pro- 
 2 
 
18 PREFACE. 
 
 secute Mr. G. Bloomfield, for teaching him. Chamber- 
 layne requested of the brother to go on and bring it to 
 a trial, for that he would defend it ; and that neither 
 George nor Robert should be hurt. 
 
 In the meantime George was much insulted for 
 having refused to join upon this occasion those who 
 called themselves exclusively the laioful crafts. 
 George, who says he was never famed for patience, 
 (it is not indeed so much as might be sometimes 
 wished very often the lot of strong and acute minds 
 to possess largely of this virtue,) took his pen, and 
 addressed a letter to one of the most active of the 
 committee-men (a man of very bad character.) In 
 this, after stating that he took Robert at his mother's 
 request, he made free as well with the private cha- 
 racter of this man, as with the views of the committee. 
 "This," says George, "was very foolish, for it made 
 things worse : but I felt too much to refrain." 
 
 What connects this episodical circumstance with 
 the character of our Author, follows in his brother's 
 words. 
 
 "Robert, naturally fond of peace, and fearful for 
 my personal safety, begged to be suffered to retire 
 from the storm. He came home ; and Mr. Austin 
 kindly bade him take his house for his home till he 
 could return to me. And here, with his mind glowing 
 with the fine descriptions of rural scenery which he 
 found in Thomson's Seasons, he again retraced the 
 very fields where first he began to think. Here, free 
 from the smoke, the noise, the contention of the city, 
 he imbibed that love of rural simplicity and rural in- 
 
PREFACE. Id 
 
 nocence, which fitted him, in a great degree, to be the 
 writer of such a thing as The Farmer's Boy. 
 
 '•Here he lived two months; — at length, as the dis- 
 pute in the trade still remained undecided, Mr. Dud- 
 bridge otfered to take Robert as an apprentice, to se- 
 cure him, at all events, from any consequences of the 
 litigation." 
 
 He was bound by Mr. Ingram, of Bell-alley, to Mr. 
 John Dudbridge. His brother George paid five shill- 
 ini^e for Robert, by way of form, as a premium. Dud- 
 bridge was their landlord, and a freeman of the city 
 of London. He acted most honourably, and took no 
 advantage of the power which the indentures gave 
 him. George Bloomfield stayed with Robert till he 
 found he could work as expertly as himself. 
 
 Mr. George Bloomfield adds, "When I left London 
 he was turned of eighteen ; and much of my happi- 
 ness since has arisen from a constant correspondence 
 which I have held with him. After I left him, he 
 studied music, and was a good player on the violin. 
 But as my brother Nat. had married a Woolwich wo- 
 man, it happened that Robert took a fancy to a comely 
 young woman of that town, whose father is a boat- 
 builder in the Government yard there. His name is 
 Church. 
 
 " Soon after he married, Robert told me, in a letter, 
 that 'he had sold his fiddle and got a wife.' Like 
 most poor men, he got a wife 'first, and had to get 
 household stufi" afterward. It took him some years to 
 get out of ready-furnished lodgings. At length, by 
 hard working, &.c., he acquired a bed of his own, and 
 
20 PREFACE. 
 
 hired the room up one pair of stairs at 14, Bell-alley, 
 Coleman-street. The landlord kindly gave him leave 
 10 sit and work in the light garret, two pair of stairs 
 higher. In this garret, amid six or seven other work- 
 men, his active mind employed itself in composing 
 The Farmer's Bov. In my correspondence I have 
 seen several poetical effusions of his ; all of them of 
 a good moral tendency; but which he very likely 
 would think do him little credit: on that account I 
 have not preserved them. 
 
 "' Robert is a ladies' shoemaker, and works for 
 Davies, Lombard-street. He is of a slender make; of 
 u bout five feet four inches high ; very dark complexion. 
 —His mother, who is a very religious member of the 
 Church of England, took all the pains she could in 
 his infancy to make him pious ; and as his reason e.\- 
 panded, his love of Ids fellow man increased with it. 
 I never knew his equal for mildness of temper and 
 goodness of disposition. And since I left him, univer- 
 sally is he praised by those who know him best, for 
 the best of husbands, an indulgent father, and quiet 
 neighbour. He is about thirty-two years old, and has 
 three children." 
 
 Mr. George Bloomfield concludes this clear, affec- 
 tionate, and interesting narrative, by a very kind 
 address to the writer of this Treface. But, pleased 
 as I am with the good opinion of a man like him, I 
 must not take praise to myself for not having neglected 
 or suppressed such a work when it came into my 
 hands. And I have no farther merit than that of see- 
 ing what it was impossible for an unprejudiced mind 
 
PREFACE. 21 
 
 not to see, and of doing what it was impossible not to 
 do. 
 
 But I join with him cordially in his prayer, "that 
 God, the Giver of thought, may, as mental light spreads, 
 raise up many who will turn a listening ear, and will 
 not despise 
 
 "The short and simple annals of the poor." 
 
 Very few words will complete what remains to be 
 added. 
 
 Struck with the work, but not less struck with the 
 remark, which is become a proverb, of the Roman 
 Satirist, that " it is not easy for those to emerge to no- 
 tice whose circumstances obscure the observation of 
 their merits," I lent it to a friend, whom 1 knew to be 
 above these prejudices, and who has deserved, and in 
 deserving, well of the public, in many other instances, 
 by his attention to literature and the elegant arts. He 
 immediately expressed a high satisfaction in it, and 
 communicated it to a firm of respectable booksellers. 
 They adopted it upon terms honourable to themselves, 
 and satisfactory to the Author, and to me in his behalf. 
 They have published it in a manner which epeaka 
 abundantly for itself. 
 
 My part has been this, and it has been a very pleas- 
 ing one : to revise the MS., making occasionally cor- 
 rections with respect to orthography, and sometimes 
 in grammatical construction. The corrections, in 
 point of grammar, reduce themselves almost wholly to 
 a circumstance of provincial usage, which even well- 
 educated persons in Suffolk and Norfolk do not wholly 
 
2-2 PHEFACE. 
 
 avoid ; and which may be said, as to general custom, 
 to have become in these counties almost an established 
 dialect: — that of adopting the plural for the singular 
 termination of verbs so as to exclude the s. But not a 
 line is added or substantially altered through the whole 
 Poem. I have requested the MS. to be preserved for 
 the satisfaction of those who may wish to be satisfied 
 on this head. The proofs have gone through my hands. 
 It has been printed slowly, because most carefully ; as 
 it deserved to be printed. I have no doubt of its re- 
 ception with the public : I have none of its going dowu 
 to posterity with honour ; which is not always the fate 
 of productions which are popular in their day. 
 
 Thus much I know ; — that the Author, with a spirit 
 amiable at all times, and which would have been re- 
 vered by antiquity, seems far less interested concern- 
 ing any fame or advantage he may derive from it to 
 himself, than in the pleasure of giving a printed copy 
 of it as a tribute of duty and affection to his mother ; 
 in whose pleasure, if it succeeds, his filial heart places 
 the gratification of which it is most desirous. It is 
 much to be a Poet, such as he will be found : — it is 
 more to be such a Man. 
 
 CAPEL LOFFT. 
 
THE FARMER'S BOY. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 INVOCATION, ETC. — SEED - TIME. — HARROWING. 
 MORNING WALl>:^.--X'r.KING. — THE DAIRY. 
 
 SUFFOLK CHEESE. SPRING COMING FORTH. 
 
 SHEEP FOND OF CHANGING. — LAMBS AT PLAY.' 
 THE BUTCHER, ETC. 
 
 (24) 
 
SPRING. 
 
 COME, blest Spirit ! whatsoe'er thou art, 
 Thou kindling warmth that hover'st round my 
 
 heart, 
 Sweet inmate, hail ! thou source of sterling joy 
 That poverty itself cannot destroy, 
 Be thou my muse ; and faithful still to me, 
 Retrace the steps of wild obscurity. 
 No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse; 
 No Alpine wonders thunder through ray verse, 
 'J'he roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill, 
 Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still : 
 Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charmed mine 
 
 eyes, 
 Nor Science led me through the boundless skies ; 
 From meaner objects far my raptures flow : 
 O point these raptures ! bid my bosom glow 
 And lead my soul to ecstasie.-? of praise 
 For all the blessings of my infant days! 
 Bear me through regions where gay Fancy 
 
 dwells; 
 But mould to Truth's fair form what Memory 
 
 tells. 
 
 (25) 
 
26 THE fap.mek's boy. 
 
 Live, trifling incidents, and grace ray song, 
 That to the humblest menial belong : 
 To him whose drudgery unheeded goes, 
 His joys unreckon'd, as his cares or woes: 
 Though joys and cares in every path are sown, 
 And youthful minds have feelings of their own, 
 Quick springing sorrows, transient as the dew, 
 Delights from trifles, trifles ever new. 
 'Twas thus with Gilks, meek, fatherless, and poor, 
 Labour his portion, but he felt no more : 
 No stripes, no tyranny his steps pursued ; 
 His life was constant, cheerful servitude : 
 Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look 
 The Fields his study, Nature was his book! 
 And, as revolving Seasons chang'd the scene 
 From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene. 
 Though every change still varied his employ. 
 Yet each new duty brought its share of joy. 
 
 Where noble Graftox spreads his rich do- 
 mains, 
 Round Euston's water'd vale, and sloping plains. 
 Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur 
 
 rise, 
 Where the kite brooding unmolested flies ; 
 The woodcock and the painted pheasant race, 
 And skulking foxes, destin'd for the chase ; 
 There Giles, untaught, and unrepining, stray 'd 
 Through every copse, and grove, and winding 
 
SPRING. 27 
 
 J here his first thoughts to Nature's charms in- 
 
 din'd, 
 Tliat stamps devotion on th' inquiring mind. 
 A httle farm his generous master till'd, 
 Who with peculiar grace his station fill'd ; 
 By deeds of hospitaUty endear'd, 
 Serv'd from affection, for his worth rever'd. 
 A happy offspring blest his plenteous board, 
 His fields were fruitful, and his barns well st9r'd. 
 And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team, 
 And lowing kine that graz'd beside the stream ; 
 Unceasing industry he kept in view, 
 And never lack'd a job for Giles to do. 
 
 Fled now the sullen murmurs of the North, 
 The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth; 
 Her universal green, and the clear sky, 
 Delight still more and more the gazing eye. 
 Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong, 
 Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along 
 The mellow'd soil ; imbibing fairer hues, 
 Or sweets from frequent showers and evening 
 
 dews; 
 That summon from their sheds the slumb'ring 
 
 ploughs. 
 While health impregnates every breeze that blows. 
 No wheels support the diving, pointed share ; 
 No groaning ox is doom'd to labour there; 
 No helpmates teach the docile steed his road ; 
 (Alike unknown the ploughboy and his goad;) 
 
28 THE farmer's boy. 
 
 But, unassisted through each toilsome day, 
 With smiHng brow the ploughman cleaves his 
 
 way; 
 Draws his fresh parallels, and widening still, 
 Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill ; 
 Strong on the wing his busy followers play, 
 Where writhing earth-worms meet th' unwelcome 
 
 day; 
 Till all is chang'd, and hill and level down, 
 Assume a livery of sober brown ; 
 Again disturb'd, when Giles with wearying strides 
 From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides ; 
 His heels deep sinking every step he goes, 
 Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes. 
 Welcome, green headland ! firm beneath his feet ; 
 Welcome the friendly bank's refreshing seat; 
 There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse, 
 Their shelt'ring canopy of pendent boughs; 
 Till rest, delicious, chase each transient pain. 
 And new-born vigour dwell in every vein. 
 Hour after hour, and day to day succeeds; 
 Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads 
 To crumbling mould ; a level surface dear. 
 And strew'd with corn to crown the rising year; 
 And o'er the whole Giles once traverse again, 
 In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain. 
 The work is done : no more to man is given ; 
 The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven. 
 Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around, 
 .And marks the first green blade that breaks the 
 
 ground ; 
 
SPRING. aO 
 
 III fancy sees his trembling oats uprun, 
 
 His tufted barley yellow in the sun ; 
 
 Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store, 
 
 And all his harvest gather'd round his door. 
 
 But still unsafe the big swoll'n grain below, 
 
 A fav'rite morsel with the rook and crow; 
 
 From held to field the flock increasing goes ; 
 
 To level crops most formidable foes ; 
 
 'J'heir danger well the wary plunderers know, 
 
 And place a watch on some conspicuous bough. 
 
 Vet oft the skulking gunner by surprise 
 
 Will scatter death amongst them as they rise. 
 
 'J'hese, hung in triumph round the spacious field,. 
 
 At best will but a short-Uv'd terror yield ; 
 
 Nor guards of property ; (not penal law, 
 
 But harmless riflemen of rags and straw ;) 
 
 Familiariz'd to these, they boldly rove, 
 
 Nor heed such sentinels that never move. 
 
 Let then your birds lie prostrate on the earth, 
 
 In dying posture, and with wings stretch'd forth ; 
 
 tShift them at eve or morn from place to place, 
 
 And Death shall terrify the pilfering race; 
 
 In the mid air, while circling round and round, 
 
 They call their lifeless comrades from the ground :- 
 
 With quick'ning wing, and note of loud alarm. 
 
 Warn the whole flock to shun th' impending hanu. 
 
 This task had Giles, in fields remote from 
 home : 
 Oft has he wish'd the rosy mom to come . 
 
30 THE FARMEP^'S BOY. 
 
 Yet never fam'd was he nor foremost found 
 To break the seal of sleep; his sleep was sound: 
 But when at day -break summon'd from his bed, 
 Light as the lark that caroH'd o'er his head, — 
 His sandy way, deep-worn by hasty showers, 
 O'er-arch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bow'rs, 
 Waving aloft their tow'ring branches proud, 
 In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud, 
 Gave inspiration, pure as ever flow'd. 
 And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd ; 
 His own shrill matin join'd the various notes 
 Of Nature's music, from a thousand throats : 
 The Blackbird strove with emulation sweet, 
 And Echo answer'd from her close retreat ; 
 The sporting White-throat on some twig's end 
 
 borne, 
 Pour'd hymns to freedom and the rising mom ; 
 Stopt in her song, perchance the starting Thrush 
 Shook a white shower fiom the black-thorn bush, 
 Where dew-drops thick as early blossoms hung, 
 And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung. 
 Across his path, in either grove to hide, 
 The timid Rabbit scouted by his side ; 
 Or Pheasant fioldly stalk'd along the road, 
 Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd. 
 
 But groves no further fenc'd the devious way ; 
 A wide extended heath before him lay. 
 Where on the grass the stagnant show'r had run, 
 And shone a mirror to the rising sun, 
 
 \ 
 
SPRING. 31 
 
 Thus doubly seen to light a distant wood, 
 To give new life to each expanding bud, 
 And chase away the dewy foot-marks found, 
 Where prowling Reynard trod his nightly round ; 
 To sliun whose thefts was Giles's evening care, 
 His feather'd victims to suspend in air, 
 High on the bough that nodded o'er his head, 
 And thus each morn to strew the field with dead. 
 
 His simple errand done, he homeward hies ; 
 Another instantly its place supplies. 
 The clattering Dairy-maid, immers'd in steam. 
 Singing and scrubbing,'midst her milk and cream, 
 Bawls out, " Go fetch the Cows !" — he hears no 
 
 more; 
 For pigs, and ducks, and turkeys throng the door, 
 And sitting hens, for constant war prepar'd ; 
 A concert strange to that which late he heard. 
 Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes ; 
 With well-known halloo calls his lazy Cows ; 
 Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze, 
 Or hear the summons with an idle gaze ; 
 For well they know the cow-yard yields no more 
 Its tempting fragrance, nor its wint'ry store. 
 Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow 
 The right of conquest all tlie law they know ; 
 The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed, 
 And one superior always takes the lead ; 
 Is ever foremost, wheresoe'er they stray ; 
 Allow'd precedence, undisputed sway ; 
 
32 THE farmer's boy. 
 
 With jealous pride her station is maintain'd, 
 For many a broil that post of honour gain'd. 
 At home, the yard affords a grateful scene ; 
 For Spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean. 
 Thence from its chalky bed behold convey'd 
 The rich manure that drenching Winter made, 
 W^hich pil'd near home grows green with many 
 
 a weed, 
 A promis'd nutriment for Autumn's seed. 
 Forth comes the Maid, and like the morning 
 
 smiles ; 
 The Mistress too, and follow'd close by Giles. 
 A friendly tripod forms their humble seat, 
 With pails bright scour'd, and delicately sweet. 
 Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray, 
 Begins the work, begins the solemn lay ; 
 The fuU-charg'd udder yields its willing streams. 
 While Mary sings some lover's amorous dreams ; 
 And crouching Giles, beneath a neighbouring 
 
 tree, 
 'J'ugs o'er his pail, and chaunts with equal glee; 
 Whose hat with tatter'd brim, of nap so bare, 
 From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, 
 A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, 
 An unambitious, peaceable cockade. 
 As unambitious too that cheerful aid 
 The Mistress yields beside her rosy Maid ; 
 With joy she views her plenteous reeking store, 
 And bears a brimmer to the dairy-door ; 
 
SI'KING. 33 
 
 Her Cows dismiss'd the luscious mead to roam, 
 Till eve again recalls them loaded home. 
 And now the DAiiir claims her choicest care, 
 And half her household find employment there 
 Slow rolls the churn, its load of clogging cream 
 At once foregoes its quality and name : 
 From knotty particles first floating wide. 
 Congealing butter 's dash'd from side to side ; 
 Streams of new milk through flowing coolers 
 
 stray. 
 And snow-white curd abounds, and wholesome 
 
 whey. 
 Due north th' unglazed windows, cold and clear. 
 For warming sunbeams are unwelcome here. 
 Brisk goes the work beneath each busy hand, 
 And Giles must trudge, whoever gives command : 
 A GiREONiTE, that serv'd them aU by turns : 
 He drains the pump, from him the faggot burns ; 
 From him the noisy hogs demand their food : 
 While at his heels run many a chirping brood, 
 Or down his path in expectation stand. 
 With equal claims upon his strewing hand. 
 Thus wastes the morn, till each with pleasure sees 
 The bustle o'er, and press'd the new-made cheese. 
 
 Unrivall'd stands thy country Cheese, O Gile." 
 Whose very name alone engenders smiles; 
 Whose fame abroad by every tongue is spoke, 
 The well-known butt of many a flinty joke, 
 3 
 
!i THE FAKMEll S EOT. 
 
 That pass like current coin the nation through ; 
 And, uh ! experience proves the satire true. 
 Provision's grave, thou ever craving mart, 
 Dependent, huge MetropoUs ! where Art 
 Her poring thousands stows in breathless rooms, 
 'Midst pois'nous smokes and steams, and rattling 
 
 looms ; 
 Where Grandeur revels in unbounded stores ; 
 Restraint, a slighted stranger at their doors! 
 Thou, like a whirlpool, drain'st the country round, 
 Till JiOndon Market, London price, resound 
 Through every town, round every passing load, 
 And dairy produce throngs the eagtern road : 
 Delicious veal, and butter every hour. 
 From Essex lowlands, and the banks of Stour ; 
 And further far, where numerous herds repose, 
 From Orwell's brink, from Waveny, or Ouse. 
 Hence iSuftblk dairy-wives run mad for cream. 
 And leave their milk with nothing but its name : 
 Its name derision and reproach pursue, 
 And strangers tell of " three times skimm'd sky 
 
 blue." 
 To cheese converted, what can be its boast ! 
 What but the common virtues of a post 1 
 If drought o'ertake it faster than the knife, 
 Most fair it bids for stubborn length of life. 
 And like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid. 
 Mocks the weak etlbrts of the bending blade ; 
 Or in the hog-trough rests in perfect spite, 
 Too big to swallow, and too hard to bite. 
 
SPKINO. 35 
 
 Inglorious victory ! Ye Cheshire meads, 
 Or Severn's flow'ry dales where Plenty treads, 
 Was your rich milk to suffer wrongs like these, 
 Farewell your pride! farewell renowned cheese! 
 The skimmer dread, whose ravages alone 
 Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone. 
 
 Nerlected now the early daisy lies ; 
 Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom'st the only prize ! 
 Advancing Sprixo profusely spreads abroad 
 Flow'rs of all hues, with sweetest fragrance 
 
 stor'd ; — 
 Where'er she treads. Love gladdens every plain, 
 Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train; 
 Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies, 
 Anticipating wealth from summer skies; 
 All Nature feels her renovating sway ; 
 The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadow gay, 
 And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen, 
 Display the new-grown branch of lighter green ; 
 On airy downs the idling Shepherd lies, 
 And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies. 
 Here then, my soul, thy darling theme pursue, 
 For every day was Giles a shepheku too. 
 
 Small was his charge : no wilds had they to 
 roam. 
 But bright inclosures circling round their home. 
 No yellow-blossom'd furze, nor stubborn thorn. 
 The heath's rough produce, had their fleeces torn, 
 
3b THE FAKMEli's JliuV. 
 
 Yet ever roving, ever seeking thee, 
 Enchanting spirit, dear A'^ariety ! 
 O happy tenants, prisoners of a day ! 
 Releas'd to ease, to pleasure, and to play ; 
 Indulg'd through every field by turns to range, 
 And taste them all in one coniinual change. 
 For though luxuriant their grassy food, 
 Sheep long confin'd but loathe the present good ; 
 Bleating around the homeward gate they meet, 
 And starve, and pine, with plenty at their feet. 
 Loos'd from the winding lane, a joyful throng, 
 See, o'er yon pasture how they pour along ! 
 Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll ; 
 Sees every pass secur'd, and fences .whole ; 
 High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye. 
 Where many a nestling first essays to fly ; 
 Where blows the woodbine, faintly streak'd>with 
 
 red. 
 And rests on every bough its tender head ; 
 Round the young ash its twining branches meet, 
 Or crown the hawthorn with its odours sweet. 
 
 Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen 
 Springes morning smiles, and soul enliv'ning green, 
 Say, did you give the thrilUng transport way ] 
 Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play 
 Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride 
 Or gaz'd in merry clusters by your side? 
 Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace. 
 At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; 
 
spraNG. 37 
 
 If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, 
 Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth, , 
 
 In shades hke these pursue your fav'rite joy, 
 'Midst Nature's revels, sports that never cloy. 
 
 A few begin a short but vigorous race, 
 And Indolence abash'd soon flies the place ; 
 Thus, challeng'd forth, see thither one by one, 
 From every side assembling playnip^'^s run ; 
 A thousand wily antics mark their stay, 
 A starting crowd, impatient of delay. 
 Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, 
 Each seems to say, " Come, let us try our speed ;" 
 Away they scour, impetuous, a-dent, strong, 
 The green turf trembhng as they bound along ; 
 Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb. 
 Where every molehill is a bed of thyme ; 
 There panting stop ; yet scarcely can refrain • 
 A bird, a leaf, will set them ofl' again : 
 Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, 
 Scatt'ring the wild-brier roses into snow, 
 Their little hmbs increasing eli'orts try. 
 Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. 
 Ah, fallen rose ! sad emblem of their doom : 
 Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom ! 
 Though unoflfending Innocence may plead, 
 Though frantic ewes may mourn the savage deed, 
 Their shepherd comes, a messenger of blood. 
 And drives them bleating from their sports and 
 food. 
 
38 THE farmer's boy. 
 
 Care loads his brow, and pity wrings his heart, 
 For lo, the murd'ring Butciikr, with his cart, 
 Demands the firstlings of the flock to die, 
 And makes a sport of life and liberty ! 
 His gay companions Giles beholds no more ; 
 Clos'd are their eyes, their fleeces drench'd in gore ; 
 Nor can Compassion, with her softest notQs, 
 Withhold the knife that plunges in their throats. 
 
 Down, indignation ! hence, ideas foul ! 
 Away the shocking image from my soul ! 
 Let kindlier visitants attend my way. 
 Beneath approaching l^ummer^s fervid ray; 
 Nor thankless glooms obtrude, nor cares annoy, 
 Whilst the sweet theme is universal joy. 
 
THE FARMER'S BOY. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 (39) 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 TURNIP. SOWING. -WHEAT RIPENING. — SPARROAVS. 
 
 INSECTS. THE SKY-LARK. REAPING, ETC. 
 
 HARVEST FIELD. DAIRY-MAID, ETC. — LABOURS 
 
 OF THE BARN. THE GANDER. NIGHT. THUN- 
 DER STORM. — HARVEST-HOME. — REFLECTIONS. 
 
 (40) 
 
SUMMER. 
 
 The Farmer's life displays in every part 
 
 A moral lesson to the sensual heart. 
 
 Though in the lap of Plenty, thoughtful still, 
 
 He looks beyond the present good or i^ ; 
 
 Nor estimates alone one blessing's worth, 
 
 From changeful seasons, or capricious earth f 
 
 But views the future with the present hours, 
 
 And looks for lailures as he looks for showers; 
 
 For casual as for certain want prepares. 
 
 And round his yard the reeking haystack rears : 
 
 Or clover, blossom'd lovely to the sight. 
 
 His team's rich store through many a wint'ry 
 
 nip^'it. 
 N'.'^liat thu'igh abundance round his dwelling 
 
 spread:-, 
 'i hough ever moist his self-improving meads 
 Supply his dairy with a copious flood, 
 And seems to promise unexhausted food ; 
 That promise fails, when buried deep in snow, 
 And vegetative juices cease to flow. 
 For this, his plough turns up the destin'd lands, 
 Whence stormy Winter draws its full demands; 
 
 (41) 
 
4i THE FARMER S EOY. 
 
 For this, the seed minutely small he sows, 
 Whence, sound and sweet, the hardy turnip grows. 
 But how unlike to April's dosing days! 
 High climbs the sun, and darts Iiis powerful rays; 
 Whitens the fresh-drawn mould and pierces 
 
 through 
 The cumb'rous clods that tumble round the plough. 
 O'er heaven's bright azure, hence with joyful eyes 
 The Farmer sees dark clouds assembling rise; 
 Borne o'er his fields a heavy torrent falls, 
 And strikes the earth in hasty driving squalls. 
 "Right welcome down, ye precious drops," he 
 
 cries; 
 But soon, too soon, the partial blessing flies. 
 " Boy, bring the harrows, try how deep the rain 
 Has forced its way." He comes, but comes in 
 
 vain ; 
 Dry dust beneath the bubbling surface lurks. 
 And mocks his pains the more, the more he works. 
 Still, 'midst huge clods, he plunges on forlorn, 
 That laugh his harrows and the showers to scorn. 
 E'en thus the living clod, the stubborn fool, 
 Resists the stormy lectures of the school, 
 Till tried with gentler means, the dunce to please, 
 His head imbibes right reason by degrees; 
 As when from eve till morning's wakeful hour, 
 Light, constant rain evinces secret pow'r, 
 And, ere the day resumes its wonted smiles, 
 Presents a cheerful easy task for Giles. 
 
SUMMER. 43 
 
 Down with a touch the mellow soil is laid, 
 And yon tall crop next claims his timely aid. 
 Thither well-pleas'd he hies, assur'd to find 
 Wild trackless haunts, and objects to his mind. 
 
 Shut up from broad rank blades that droop 
 
 below, 
 'i'he nodding wheat-ear forms a graceful bow, 
 With milky kernels starting full wcigh'd down, 
 Ere yet the sun hath ting'd its head with brown. 
 There thousands in a flock, for ever gay, 
 Jjoud chirping Sparrows welcome on the day, 
 And from the mazes of the leafy thorn 
 Drop one by one upon the bending corn. 
 Giles with a pole assails their close retreats. 
 And round the grass-grown dewy border beats. 
 On either side completely overspread. 
 Here branches bend, there corn o'erstoops his 
 
 head. 
 Green covert, hail ! for through the varying year 
 No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear. 
 Here Wisdom's placid eye delighted sees 
 His frequent intervals of lonely ease. 
 And with one ray his infant soul inspires, 
 Just kindling there her never-dying fires. 
 Whence solitude derives peculiar charms 
 And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. 
 Just where the parting bough's light shadows 
 
 play, 
 Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day, 
 
44 THE farmer's boy. 
 
 Stretch'd on the turf he Ues, a peopled bed, 
 Where swarming insects creep around his head. 
 The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain 
 O'er the smooth plantain leaf, a spacious plain ! 
 Thence higher still, by countless steps convey 'd, 
 He gains the summit of a shiv'ring blade, 
 And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around, 
 Exulting in his distance from the ground. 
 The tender speckled moth here dancing seen, 
 'J'he vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, 
 And all prolific Suniiner's sporting train, 
 'J'heir little lives by various powers sustain. 
 But wh<it can unassisted vision do 1 
 What, but recoil where most it would pursue;; 
 His patient gaze but finish with a sigh, 
 When Music waking speaks the sky-Iwk nigh. 
 Just starting from the corn, he cheerly sings, 
 And trusts with conscious pride his downy 
 
 wings ; 
 Still louder breathes, and in the face of day 
 Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark his way- 
 Close to his eyes, his hat he instant bends, 
 And forms a friendly telescope, that lends 
 Just aid enough to dull the glaring light. 
 And place the wand'ring bird before his sight, 
 That oft beneath a light cloud sweeps along, 
 I.ost for a while, yet pours the varied song ; 
 The eye still follows, and the cloud moves by, 
 Again he stretches up the clear blae sky ; 
 
SUMMER. 4rj 
 
 His form, his motion, undistinguish'd quite, 
 Save when he wheels direct from shade to light ; 
 E'en then the songster a mere speck became, 
 Gliding like fancy's bubbles in a dream, 
 The gazer sees ; but yielding to repose, 
 Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. 
 Delicious sleep ! From sleep who could forbear, 
 With guilt no more than Giles, and no more 
 
 care 
 
 Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing. 
 Nor Conscience once disturbs him with a sting; 
 He wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain, 
 And takes his pole, and brushes round again. 
 
 Its dark green hue, its sicklier tints all fail. 
 And ripening Harvest rustles in the gale. 
 A glorious sight, if glory dwells below, 
 Where Heaven's munificence makes all things 
 
 show 
 O'er every field and golden prospect found. 
 That glads the Ploughman's Sunday Morning's 
 
 round, 
 When on some eminence he takes his stand, 
 To judge the smihng produce of the land. 
 Here Vanity slinks back, her head to hide ; 
 What is there here to flatter human pride 1 
 The tovv'ring fabric, or the dome's loud roai, 
 And steadfast columns may astonish ijiore, 
 Where the charm'd gazer long delighlfd stays. 
 Yet trac'd but to the architect the praise ; 
 
4o TnE farmer's boy. 
 
 Whilst here, the veriest clown that treads the sod 
 Without one scruple gives the praise to God ; 
 And twofold joys possess his raptur'd mind, 
 From gratitude and admiration join'd. 
 
 Here, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worth 
 Naturk herself invites the ricapers forth; 
 Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest, 
 And gives that ardour which in every breast 
 From infancy to age alike appears, 
 When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears. 
 No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows — 
 Children of want, tor yon the bounty flows ! 
 And every cottage from the plenteous store > 
 Receives a burden nightly at its door. 
 
 Hark ! where the sweeping scythe now ript 
 along ; 
 Each sturdy Mower, emulous and strong, 
 Whose writhing form meridian heat defies, 
 Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries: 
 Prosirates the waving treasure at his feet, 
 But spares the rising clover, short and sweet. 
 Come, Hkaltii ! come, Jo//,/// / light-footed come 
 Here hold your revels, and make this your home 
 Each heart awaits and hails you as its own ; 
 Each moisten'd brow, that scorns to wear a frown 
 Th' unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants stray 'd 
 E'en the domestic laughing dairy-maid 
 
SUMMER. 47 
 
 Hies to the field, the general toil to share. 
 Meanwhile the Farmer quits his elbow-chair, 
 His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease, 
 And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees 
 His gates thrown open, and his team abroad, 
 The ready group attendant on his word, 
 To turn the swath, the quiv'ring load to rear, 
 Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear. 
 !Summer'§ light garb itself now cumb'rous grown, 
 Each his tbin doublet in the shade throws down : 
 Where oft the Mastiff skulks with half-shut eye, 
 And rouses at the stranger passing by ; 
 While unrestrained the social converse flows, 
 And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows. 
 And rival wits with more than rustic grace 
 Confess the presence of a pretty face. 
 
 For, lo ! encircled there, the lovely Maid, 
 In youth's own bloom and native smiles array'd ; 
 Her hat awry, divested of her gown. 
 Her creaking stays of leather, stout and brown. 
 Invidious barrier ! why art thou so high, 
 When the slight coveiing of her neck slip!* by, 
 There half revealing to the eager sight 
 Her full-ripe bosom, exquisitely while? 
 Ill many a local tale of harmless mirth. 
 And many a joke of momentary birth, 
 She bears a part, and as she stops to speak, 
 Strokes back the ringlets from her glowing check. 
 
48 THE FARMEPv'.S BOY. 
 
 IMow noon gone by, and four declining hours, 
 The weary hmbs relax their boasted pow'rs ; 
 Thirst rages strong, the fainting spirits lail, 
 And ask the sov'reign cordial, home-brew'd ale : 
 Beneath some shelt'ring heap of yellow corn 
 Rests the hoop'd keg, and friendly cooling horn, 
 That mocks alike the goblet's brittle frame, 
 Its costlier potions, and its nobler name. 
 To Mary first the brimming draught is given, 
 By toil made welcome as the dews of heaven, 
 And never lip that press'd its homely edge 
 Had kinder blessings or a heartier pledge. 
 Of wholesome viands here a banquet smiles, 
 A common cheer for all ; — e'en humble Giles,) 
 Who joys his trivial services to yield 
 Amidst the fragrance of the open field, 
 Oft doom'd in suflibcating heat to bear 
 The cobweb'd barn's impure and dusty air^ 
 To ride in murky state the panting steed, 
 Destin'd aloft th' unloaded grain to tread, 
 Where, in his path as heaps on heaps are thrown, 
 He rears, and plunges the loose mountain down, 
 Laborious task ! with what delight when done 
 Both horsp and rider greet th' unclouded sun ! 
 Yet by th' unclouded sun are hourly bred 
 The bold assailants that surround thine head, 
 Poor patient Ball ! and with insulting wing 
 Roar hi thine ears, and dart the piercing sting. 
 In thy behalf, the crest- wav'd boughs avail 
 More than thy short-clipt remnant of a tail, 
 
SUMJIEK. 49 
 
 A moving mockery, a useless name, 
 .A living proof of cruelty and shame. 
 Shame to the man, whatever fame he bore, 
 Who took from thee what man can ne'er restore, 
 Thy weapon of defence, thy chiefest good, 
 When swarming flies contending suck thy blood 
 Nor thine alone the suifering, thine the care : 
 The fretful Ewe bemoans an equal share. 
 Tormented into sores, her head she hides. 
 Or angry sweeps them from her new-shorn sides. 
 Penn'd in the yard, e'en now at closing day 
 Unruly Cows with mark'd impatience stay, 
 And vainly striving to escape their foes, 
 The pail kick down ; a piteous current flows. 
 
 Is 't not enough that plagues like these molest ] 
 Must still another foe annoy their rest ] 
 He comes, the pest and terror of the yard. 
 His full-fledg'd progeny's imperious guard ; 
 The Gander; — spiteful, insolent, and bold, 
 At the Colt's footlock takes his daring hold ; 
 There, serpent-like, escapes a dreadful blow. 
 And straight attacks a poor defenceless cow ; 
 Each booby goose th' unworthy strife enjoys. 
 And hails his prowess with redoubled noise. 
 Then back he stalks, of self-importance full, 
 Seizes the shaggy foretop of the bull, 
 Till whirl'd aloft he falls ; a timely check. 
 Enough to dislocate his worthless neck : 
 
50 THE fak.aier's bov. 
 
 For lo! of olil he boasts an honour'd wound; 
 Behold that broken wing that trails the ground ! 
 Thus fools and bravoes kindred pranks pursue ; 
 As savage quite, and oft as fatal loo. 
 Happy the man that foils an envious elf, 
 Using the darts of spleen to serve himself. 
 As when by turns the strolling swine engage 
 The utmost ertbrts of the bully's rage, 
 Whose nibbling warfare on the grunter's side 
 Is welcome pleasure to his bristly hide ; 
 Gently he stoops, or lays himself along, 
 Endures the insults of the gabbling throng, 
 That march exulting round his fallen head, 
 As human victors trample on their dead. 
 
 Still twilight welcome ! rest, how sweet art thou! 
 Now eve o'erhangs the western cloud's thick brow< 
 The far-stretch'd curtain of retiring light. 
 With fiery treasures fraught, that on the sight 
 Flash from its bulging sides, where darkness lours 
 In Fancy's eye, a chain of mould'ring tow'rs; 
 Or craggy coasts just rising into view, 
 'Midst jav'lins dire, and darts of streaming blue. 
 Anon tired labourers bless their shelt'ring home. 
 When midnight and the frightful tempest come. 
 The farmer wakes, and sees with silent dread 
 The angry shafts of Heaven gleam round his bed , 
 The bursting cloud reiterated roars, 
 Shakes his straw roof, and jars his bolted doors : 
 
SUMMER. 5l 
 
 The slow-vving'd storm along the troubled skies 
 Spreads its dark course ; the wind begins to rise ; 
 And full-leaved elms, his dwelling's shade by day, 
 With mimic thunder give its fury way: 
 Sounds in his chimney top a doleful peal, 
 'Midst pouring rain, or gusts of rattling hail, 
 With tenfold danger low the tempest bends, 
 And quick and strong the sulphurous flame de- 
 scends ; 
 The fright'ned mastiff from his kennel flies, 
 And cringes at the door with piteous cries. — 
 
 Where now's the triflerl where the child of 
 pride 1 
 These are the moments when the heart is tried ! 
 Nor lives the man with conscience e'er so clear 
 But feels a solemn, reverential fear: 
 Feels too a joy relieve his aching breast, 
 When the spent storm hath howl'd itself to rest. 
 Still welcome beats the long-continued shower. 
 And sleep protracted comes with double power ; 
 Calm dreams of bliss bring on the morning sun, 
 For every barn is fill'd, and Harvest done ! 
 
 Now, ere sweet Summer bids its last adieu, 
 And winds blow keen where late the blossom 
 
 grew, 
 The bustUng day and jovial night must come, 
 The long accustom'd feast of Harvest-home. 
 
52 THE farmer's boy. 
 
 No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright, 
 
 Can give tiie piiilosophic mind deligiit ; 
 
 No triumph please while rage and death destroy : 
 
 Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy. 
 
 And where the joy, if rightly understood, 
 
 Like cheerful praise for universal good 1 
 
 The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows. 
 
 But free and pure the grateful current flows. 
 
 Behold the sound oak table's massy frame 
 Bestride the kitchen floor ! the careful dame 
 And gen'rous host invite their friends around 
 While all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the gr x)und, 
 Are guests by right of custom : — old and young, 
 And many a neighbouring yeoman, join the 
 
 throng, 
 With artizans that lent their dext'rous aid, 
 When o'er each field the flaming sunbeams 
 play'd. 
 
 Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless 
 hoard. 
 Though not one jelly trembles on the board. 
 Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave ; 
 With all that made our great forefathers brave, 
 Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours tried, 
 And cooks had Nature's judgment set aside. 
 With thanks to heaven, and tales of rustic lore 
 The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er 
 
SUMMER. 53 
 
 A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound, 
 As quick the frothing horn performs its round; 
 Care's mortal foe ; that sprightly joys imparts 
 To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts. 
 Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies 
 In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise, 
 And crackling music, with the frequent song, 
 Unheeded bear the midnight hour along. 
 Here once a year distinction lowers its crest, — 
 The master, servant, and the merry guest, 
 Are equal all ; and round the happy ring 
 The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling, 
 And, warm'd with gratitude, he quits his place, 
 With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face, 
 Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend. 
 To serve at once the master and the friend ; 
 Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, 
 His nats, his conversation, and his ale. 
 
 Such were the days, — of days long past I sing,— 
 When pride gave place to mirth without a sting ; 
 Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore 
 To violate the feelings of the poor ; 
 To leave them distanc'd in the madd'ning race, 
 Where'er refinement shows its hated face : 
 Nor causeless hited ; 'tis the peasant's curse, 
 That hourly makes his wretched station worse 
 Destroys hfe's intercourse; the social plan 
 That rank to rank cements, as man to man ; 
 
54 THE farmer's boy. 
 
 Wealth flows around him, fashion lordly reigns; 
 Yet poverty is his, and mental pains. 
 Methinks I hear the mourner thus impart 
 The stifled murmurs of his wounded heart : 
 *' "Whence comes this change, ungracious, irk- 
 some, cold 1 
 Whence the new grandeur that mine eyes be* 
 
 hold 1 
 The wid'ning distance which I daily see. 
 Has wealth done this"? — then wealth's a foe to 
 
 me; 
 Foe to our rights; that leaves a powerful few 
 The paths of emulation to pursue : — 
 For emulation stoops to us no more : 
 The hope of humble industry is o'er; 
 The blameless hope, the cheering sweet presage 
 Of future comforts for declining age. 
 Can my sons share from this parental hand 
 The profits with the labours of the land ; 
 No; though indulgent Heaven its blessing deigns, 
 Where's the small farm to suit my scanty means* 
 Content, the poet sings, with us resides; 
 In lonely cols like mine the damsel hides ; 
 And will he then in raptur'd visions tell 
 That sweet Content with Want can ever dwell? 
 A barley loaf, 'tis true, my table ♦owns. 
 That fast diminishing in lusty rounds, 
 Stops Nature's cravings ; yet her sighs will flow 
 From knowing this, — that once it was not so. 
 
SUMMEK. 55 
 
 Our annual feast, when Earth her plenty yields, 
 When crown'd with boughs the last load quits 
 
 the fields, 
 The aspect still of ancient joys puts on — 
 The aspect only, with the substance gone: 
 The self-same horn is still at our command, 
 But serves none now but the plebeian hand; 
 For home-brew'd ale, neglected and debas'd. 
 Is quite discarded from the realms of taste. 
 Where unaffected freedom charm'd the soul. 
 The separate table and the costly bowl, 
 Cool as the blast that checks the budding Spring, 
 A mockery of gladness round them fling. 
 For oft the Farmer, ere his heart approves, 
 Yields up the custom which he dearly loves. 
 Refinement rushes on him like a tide ; 
 Bold innovations down its current ride, 
 That bear no peace beneath their showy dress, 
 Nor add one tittle to his happiness. 
 His guests selected ; rank's punctilios known, 
 What trouble waits upon a casual frown ! 
 Restraint's foul manacles his pleasures maim ; 
 Selected guests selected phrases claim ; 
 Nor reigns that joy when hand in hand they join 
 That good old Master felt in shaking mine. 
 Heaven bless his memory ! bless his honour'd 
 
 name 
 (The poor will speak his lasting worthy fame :) 
 To souls fair purpos'd strength and guidance give ; 
 In pity to us still let goodness live ; 
 
56 THE farmek's boy. 
 
 Let labour have its due ; my cot shall be 
 From chilling want and guilty murmurs free ; 
 Let labour have its due, — then peace is mine, 
 And never, never shall my heart repine." 
 
THE FARMER'S BOY. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 (57) 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 ACORNS. HOGS IN THE AVOOD. — ^WHEAT SOIVINCr. 
 
 THE CHURCH. VILLAGE GIRLS.-^HE MAD 
 
 GIRL. THE BIRD-r.OY's HUT. DISAPrOINT- 
 
 MENT: REFLECTIONS, ETC. EUSTON HALL.— 
 
 FOX-HUNTING. — 'OLD TROUNC^A. LONG NIGHTS. 
 
 A WELCOME TO WINTER. 
 
 (58) 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 Again, the year's decline, 'midst storms and 
 
 floods, 
 The thundering chase, the yellow fading woods, 
 Invite my song; that fain would boldly tell 
 Of upland coverts, and the echoing dell, 
 By turns resounding loud, at eve and morn, 
 The swmeherd's halloo, or the huntsman's horn. 
 
 No more the fields with scatter'd grain supply 
 The restless wand'ring tenants of the sty : 
 From oak to oak they run with eager haste, 
 And wrangling share the first delicious taste 
 Of fallen acorns; yet but thmly found 
 Till the strong gale hath shook them to the ground. 
 It comes : and roaring woods obedient wave : 
 Their home well pleased the joint adventurers 
 
 leave ; 
 The trudging sow leads forth her numerous young, 
 Playful, and white, and clean, the briers among, 
 Till briers and thorns increasing, fence them round, 
 Where last year's mould'ring leaves bestrew the 
 
 ground, 
 
 (59) 
 
60 THE farmer's boy. 
 
 And o'er their heads, loud lash'd by furious squalls, 
 Bright from their cups the ratthng treasure falls; 
 Hot thirsty food; whence doubly sweet and cool 
 The welcome margin of some rush-grown pool, 
 The wild duck's lonely haunt, whose jealous eye 
 Guards every point ; who sits prepared to fly 
 On the calm bosom of her little lake, 
 Too closely screen'd for ruffian winds to shake ; 
 And as the bold intruders press around, 
 At once she starts, and rises with a bound ; 
 With bristles rais'd the sudden noise they hear, 
 And ludicrously wild, and wing'd with fear, 
 The herd decamp with more than swinish speed, 
 And snorting dash through sedge, and rush, and 
 
 reed ; 
 Through tangling thickets headlong on they go, 
 Then stop and listen for their fancied foe ; 
 The hindmost still the growing panic spreads, 
 Repeated fright the first alarm succeeds, 
 Till Folly's wages, wounds and thorns, they reap 
 Yet glorying in their fortunate escape. 
 Their groundless terrors by degrees soon cease, 
 And Night's dark reign restores their wonted 
 
 peace. 
 For now the gale subsides, and from each bough 
 The roosting pheasant's short but frequent crow 
 Invites to rest ; and huddling side by side. 
 The herd in closest ambush seek to hide ; 
 Seek some warm slope, with shagged moss o'er- 
 
 spread, 
 Dry'd leaves their copious covering and their bed. 
 
AUTUMN. 61 
 
 In vain may Giles, through gath'ring glooms that 
 
 fall, 
 And solemn silence, urge his piercing call ; 
 Whole days and nights they tarry 'midst their 
 
 store. 
 Nor quit the woods till oaks can yield no more. 
 
 Beyond bleak Winter's rage, beyond the Spring 
 That rolling Earth's unvarying course will bring, 
 Who tills the ground looks on with mental eye. 
 And sees next Summer's sheaves and cloudless 
 
 sky. 
 And even now, whilst Nature's beauty dies. 
 Deposits Seed, and bids new harvests rise ; 
 Seed well prepared and warm'd with glowing lime 
 'Gainst earth-bred grubs, and cold, and lapse of 
 
 time ; 
 For searching frosts and various ills invade, 
 Whilst wint'ry months depress the springing 
 
 blade. 
 The plough moves heavily, and strong the soil. 
 And clogging harrows with augmented toil 
 Dive deep ; and chnging, mixes with the mould 
 A fatt'ning treasure from the nightly fold, 
 And all the cow-yard's highly valued store, 
 That late bestrew'd the blacken 'd surface o'er. 
 No idling hours are here, when Fancy trims • 
 Her dancing taper over outstretch'd limbs, 
 And in her thousand thousand colours drest. 
 Plays round the grassy couch of noontide rest : 
 
G2 THE fakmek's bot. 
 
 Here Giles for hours of indolence atones 
 With strong exertion and with weary bones, 
 And knows no leisure; till the distant chime 
 Of Sabbath bells he hears at sermon time, 
 That down the brook sound sweetly in the gale, 
 Or strike the rising hill, or skim the dale. 
 
 Nor his alone the sweets of ease to taste ; 
 Kind rest extends to all ; — save one poor beast, 
 That, true to time and pace, is doom'd to plod, 
 To bring the pastor to the House of God : 
 Mean structure; where no bones of heroes lie! 
 The rude inelegance of poverty 
 Reigns here alone; else why that roof of straw? 
 Those narrow windows with a frequent flaw 1 
 O'er whose low cells the dock and mallow spread, 
 And rampant nettles lift the spiry head, 
 Whilst from the hollows of the tower on high 
 The gray-capp'd daws in saucy legions fly. 
 Round these lone walls assembling neighbours 
 
 meet, 
 And tread departed friends beneath their feet ; 
 And new-brier'd graves, that prompt the secret sigh, 
 Show each the spot where he himself must lie. 
 'Midst timely greetings village news goes round, 
 Of crops late shorn, or crops that deck the ground ; 
 Experienced ploughmen in the circle join; 
 While sturdy boys, in feats of strength to shine, 
 With pride elate their young associates brave 
 That jump from hollow-sounding grave to grave , 
 
AUTUMN. 63 
 
 Then close consulting, each his talent lends 
 To plan fresh sports when tedious service ends. 
 Hither at times, with cheerfulness of soul, 
 Sweet village Maids from neighbouring hamlets 
 
 stroll, 
 That like the light-heel'd does o'er lawns that rove. 
 Look shyly curious; rip'ning into love; 
 For love's their errand ; hence the tints that glow 
 On either cheek, a heighten'd lustre know ; 
 When conscious of their charms, e'en Age looks 
 
 sly, 
 And rapture beams from Youth's observant eye. 
 The pride of such a party, Nature's pride, 
 Was lovely Ann ; who innocently tried, 
 With hat of airy shape and ribbons gay, 
 Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way : 
 But ere her twentieth summer could expand, 
 Or youth was render'd happy with her hand, 
 Her mind's serenity, her peace was gone, 
 Her eye grew languid, and she wept alone ; 
 yet causeless seem'd her grief; for quick restrain'd, 
 Mirth follow'd loud, or indignation reign'd ; 
 Whims wild and simple led her from her home, 
 The heath, the common, or the fields to roam 1 
 Terror and joy alternate ruled her hours: 
 Now blithe she sang, and gather'd useless flow'rs ; 
 Now pluck'd a tender twig from every bough, 
 To whip the hov'ring demons from her brow. 
 Ill-fated Maid ! thy guiding spark is fled. 
 And lasting wretchedness awaits thy bed — 
 
64 THE farmer's coy. 
 
 Thy bed of straw ! for mark, where even now 
 O'er their lost child afflicted parents bow ; 
 Their woe she knows not, but perversely coy, 
 Inverted customs yield her sullen joy ; 
 Her midnight meals in secresy she takes, 
 Low mutt'ring to the moon, that rising breaks 
 Thro' night's dark gloom — oh, how much more 
 
 forlorn 
 Her night, that knows of no returning morn ! 
 Slow from the threshold, once her infant seat, 
 O'er the cold earth she crawls to her retreat : 
 Quitting the cot's warm walls unhoused to lie. 
 Or share the swine's impure and narrow sty ; 
 The damp night air her shiv'ring limbs assails ; 
 In dreams she moans, and fancied wrongs bewails. 
 When morning wakes, none earlier roused than 
 
 she, 
 When pendent drops fall glitt'ring from the tree. 
 But nought her rayless melancholy cheers. 
 Or soothes her breast, or stops her streaming tears. 
 Her matted locks unornamented flow ; 
 Clasping her knees, and waving to and fro ; 
 Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide 
 A piteous mourner by the pathway side. 
 Some tufted molehill through the livelong day 
 She calls her throne — there weeps her life away ; 
 And oft the gaily passing stranger stays 
 His well-timed step, and takes a silent gaze, 
 Till sympathetic drops unbidden start, 
 And pangs quick springing muster round his 
 
 heart : 
 
AUTUMN. 65 
 
 And soft he treads with other gazers round, 
 And fain would catch her sorrow's plaintive 
 
 sound. 
 One word alone is all that strikes the ear, 
 One short, pathetic, simple word, — " Oh dear !" 
 A thousand times repeated to the wind. 
 That wafts the sigh, but leaves the pang behind ! 
 For ever of the proffer'd parley sh)', 
 She hears the unwelcome foot advancing nigh ; 
 Nor quite unconscious of her wretched plight. 
 Gives one sad look, and hurries out of sight. — 
 
 Fair promised sunbeams of terrestrial bliss, 
 Health's gallant hopes, — and are ye sunk to this I 
 For in life's road though thorns abundant grow. 
 There still are joys poor Poll can never know ; 
 Joys which the gay companions of her prime 
 Sip, as they drift along the stream of time; 
 At eve to hear beside their tranquil home 
 The lifted latch, that speaks the lover come ; 
 That love matured, next playful on the knee 
 To press the velvet lip of infancy ; 
 To stay the tottering step, the features trace ; 
 Inestimable sweets of social peace ! 
 
 O Thou, who bidd'st the vernal juices rise ? 
 Thou, on whose blasts autumnal foliage flies! 
 Let Peace ne'er leave me, nor my heart grow cold, 
 Whilst life and sanity are mine to hold. 
 
66 ' THE farmer's boy. 
 
 Shorn of their flow'rs that sheJ th' untreasured 
 seed, 
 The withering pasture, and the fading mead, 
 Less tempting grown, diminish more and more, 
 The dairy's pride ! sweet Summer's flowing s-tore. 
 IVew cares succeed, and gentler duties press, 
 Where the lire-side, a school of tenderness, 
 Revives the languid chirp, and warms the blood 
 Of cold-nipt weaklings of the latter brood, 
 That from the shell just bursting into day, 
 Through yard or pond pursue their vent'rous way. 
 Far weightier cares and wider scenes expand ; 
 What devastation marks the new-sown land ! 
 '« From hungry woodland foes, go, fcliles, and guard 
 The rising wheat ; insure its great reward ; 
 A future sustenance, a Summer's pride, 
 Demand thy vigilance ; then be it tried ; 
 Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun ; 
 Go, tarry there from morn till setting sun." 
 
 ,-Qi\ b'lavFS the blast, or ceaseless rain descends ; 
 The ha!f-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends. 
 O for a hovel, e'er so small or low, 
 Whose roof, repelling winds or early snow, 
 Might bring home's comforts fresh before his eyes ! 
 No sooner thought, than see the structure rise, 
 In some sequester'd nook, embank'd around, 
 Sods for its walls, and straw in burdens bound 
 Dried fuel hoarded is his richest store, 
 And circhng smoke obscures his little door : 
 
AUTUMN. *. 67 
 
 Wlience creeping forth, to duty's call he yields, 
 And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields. 
 On whitethorns towering, and the leafless rose, 
 A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows, 
 Where clust'ring sloes iij glossy order rise. 
 He crops the loaded branch ; a cumb'rous prize ; 
 And o'er the flame the sputtering fruit he rests, 
 Placing green sods to seat his coming guests ; 
 His guests by promise; playmates young and 
 
 gay:— 
 But ah ! fresh pastimes lure their steps away ! 
 He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain, 
 Till feeling Disappointmenf s cruel pain, 
 His fairy revels are exchanged for rage. 
 His banquet marred, grown dull his hermitage. 
 The field becomes his prison : till on high 
 Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly. 
 'Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner beT 
 If fields are prisons. Where is Liberty 1 
 Here still she dwells, and here her votaries stroll ; 
 But disappointed hope untunes the soul : 
 Restraint 's unfelt whilst hours of rapture flow, 
 When troubles press, to chains and barriers grow, 
 liook then from trivial up to greater woes ; 
 From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes, 
 To where the dungeon'd mourner heaves the sigh ; 
 W^here not one cheering sunbeam meets his eye. 
 Though ineflTectual pity thine may be. 
 No wealth, no power, to set the captive free ; 
 
63 piE farmer's boy. ■• 
 
 Though only to thy ravish'd sight is given 
 The radiant path that Howard trod to Heaven ; 
 Thy slights can make the wretched more forlorn, 
 And deeper drive affliction's harbed thorn. 
 Say not " I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cell 
 With news of dearest friends ; — how good, how 
 
 well ; 
 I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart :'' 
 Then tail, and play the worthless trifler's part, 
 To sip flat pleasures from thy glass's brim. 
 And v/aste the precious hour that 's due to him. 
 In mercy spare the base unmanly blow : 
 Where can he turn, to whom coipplain of you 1 
 Back to past joys in vain his thoughts may stray, 
 Trace and retrace the beaten worn-out way. 
 The rankling injury will pierce his breast, 
 And curses on thee break his midnight rest. 
 
 Bereft of song, and ever cheering green. 
 The soft endearments of the Summer scene, 
 New harmony pervades the solemn wood, 
 Dear to the soul, and healthful to the blood : 
 For bold exertion follows on the sound 
 Of distant sportsmen and the chiding hound ; 
 First heard from kennel bursting, mad with joy, 
 Where smiling Euston boasts her good Fitzroy, 
 liord of pure alms, and gifts that wide extend ; 
 'J'he farmer's patron, and the poor man's friend. 
 Whose mansion glitters with the eastern ray. 
 Whose elevated temple points the way. 
 
AUTUMN. 69 
 
 O'er slopes and lawns, the park's extensive pride, 
 To where the victims of the chase reside, 
 Ingulf d in eafth, in conscious safety warm, 
 'J'ill lo ! a plot portends their coming harm. 
 
 • In earliest hours of dark unhooded morn, 
 Ere yet one rosy cloud be.-peaks the dawn. 
 Whilst far abroad the fox pursues his prey, 
 He's doom'd to risk the perils of the day, 
 From his strong hold block'd out ; perhaps to bleed, 
 Or owe his life to fortune or to speed. 
 For now the pack, impatient rushing on, 
 Range through the darkest coverts one by one ; 
 'I'race every spot; whilst down each noble glade 
 That guides the eye beneath a changeful shade, 
 The loit'ring sportsman feels the instinctive flame, 
 And checks his steed to mark the springing game. 
 'Midst intersecting cuts and winding ways 
 The huntsman cheers his dogs, and anxious strays 
 Where every narrow riding, even shorn, 
 Gives back the echo of his mellow horn : 
 Till fresh and lightsome, every power untried, 
 The starting fugitive leaps by his side, 
 His lifted finger to his ear he plies. 
 And the view halloo bids a chorus rise 
 Of dogs quick-mouth'd, and shouts that mingle 
 
 loud. 
 As bursting thunder rolls from cloud to cloud. 
 With ears erect, and crest of vig'rous mould, 
 O'er ditch, o'er fence, unconquerably bold. 
 
70 THE FARMER S BOY. 
 
 The shining courser lengthens every bound, 
 And his strong foot-locks suck the moisten'd 
 
 ground, 
 As from the confines of the wood they pour, 
 And joyous villages partake the roar. 
 O'er heath far stretch'd, or down, or valley low, 
 The stiff-Iimb'd peasant, glorying in the show, 
 Pursues in vain ; where youth itself soon tires, 
 Spite of the transports that the chase inspires ; 
 For who unmounted long can charm the eye. 
 Or licar the music of the leading cry '^ 
 
 Poor faithful Trouncer ! thou canst lead no 
 more; 
 All thy fatigues and all thy triumphs o'er! 
 Triumphs of worth, Vv^hose honorary fame 
 Was still to follow true the hunted game ; 
 Beneath enormous oaks, Britannia's boast. 
 In thick impenetrable coverts lost, 
 When the warm pack in fault'ring silence stood, 
 Thine was the note that rous'd the list'ning wood. 
 Rekindling every joy with tenfold force. 
 Through all the mazes of the tainted course ; 
 fStill foremost thou the dashing stream to cross, 
 And tempt along the animated horse; 
 Foremost o'er fen or level mead to pass, 
 And sweep the 'showering dew-drops from t 
 
 grass ; 
 Then bright emerging from the mist below 
 To climb the woodland hill's exulting brow. 
 
AUTUilX. 71 
 
 Pride of thy race ! with worlii far less than thine 
 Full many human leaders daily shine ! 
 Less faith, less constancy, less gen'rous zeal ! — 
 Then no disgrace my humble verse shall feel, 
 Where not one lying line to riches bows, 
 Or poison'd sentiment from rancour flows; 
 ZVor flow'rs'are strewn around Ambition's car: — 
 An honest dog 's a nobler theme by far : 
 Each sportsman heard the tidings with a sigh, 
 When Death's cold touch had stopp'd his tuneful 
 
 cry; 
 And though high deeds, and fair exalted praise, 
 In memory lived, and flow'd in rustic lays. 
 Short was the strain of monumental woe: 
 
 " FoXKS, REJOICE ! HERK IIURIEI) LIES YOUR 
 FOK."* 
 
 In safety housed, throughout Night s length- 
 'ning reign. 
 The cock sends forth a loud and piercing strain ; 
 More frequent, as the glooms of midnight flee. 
 And hours roll round that brought him liberty. 
 When Summer's early dawn, mild, clear, and 
 
 bright. 
 Chased quick away the transitory night : — 
 Hours now in darkness veil'd ; yet loud the scream 
 Of geese impatient for the playful stream ; 
 And all the feather'd tribe imprison'd raise 
 Their morning notes of inharmonious praise; 
 
 * Inscribed on a stone in Enston Park wall. 
 
t)i THE FARMER S BOY. 
 
 And many a clamorous hen and cockerel gay, 
 When daylight slowly through the fog breaks way, 
 Fly wantonly abroad : but ah, how soon 
 The shades of twilight follow hazy noon, 
 Short'ning the busy day ! day that slides by 
 Amidst the unfinished toils of husbandry ; 
 Toils still each morn resumed with double care, 
 To meet the icy terrors of the year ; 
 To meet the threats of Boreas undismay'd, 
 And Winter's gathering frowns and hoary head. 
 
 Then welcome, cold ! welcome, ye snowy nights ! 
 Heaven 'midst your rage shall nlingle pure delights, 
 And confidence of hope the soul sustain, 
 While devastation sweeps along the plain : 
 Nor shall the child of poverty despair, 
 But bless the Power that rules the changing year ; 
 Assured, — tho' horrors round his cottage reign, — 
 That Spring will come, and Nature smile again. 
 
THE FARMER'S BOY. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 (73) 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 TENDERNESS TO CATTLE. — FROZl^N TURNIPS. — THE 
 COW- YARD. NIGHT.— THE FARM- HOUSE. FIRE- 
 SIDE. farmer's advice and INSTRUCT ON. 
 
 NIGHTLY CARES OF THE STABLE. DOBBIN. THE 
 
 POST-HORSE. — SHEEP-STEALING DOGS. — WALKS 
 OCCASIONED THEREBY. THE CHOST. LAMB- 
 TIME. RETURNING SPRING. CONCLUSION. 
 
 (74) 
 
WINTER. 
 
 WiTii kindred pleasures moved, and cares op- 
 
 press'd, 
 Sharing alike our weariness and rest ; 
 Who lives the daily partner of our hours, 
 Through every change of heat, of frost, and showers, 
 Partakes our cheerful meals, partaking first 
 In mutual labour and in mutual thirst ; 
 The kindly intercourse will ever prove 
 A bond of amity and social love. 
 To more than man this gen'rous warmth extends, 
 And oft the team and shiv'ring herd befriends ; 
 Tender solicitude the bosom fills, 
 And Pity executes what Reason wills ; 
 Vouth learns compassion's tale from every tongue, 
 And flies to aid the helpless and the young : 
 When now, unsparing as the scourge of war. 
 Blasts follow blasts, and groves dismantled roar, 
 Around their home the stofm pinch'd cattle lows, 
 IVo nourishment in frozen pasture grows. 
 Yet frozen pastures every morn resound 
 With fair abundance thund'ring to the ground. 
 
 (75) 
 
/b THE FARMER S BOY. 
 
 For though on hoary twigs no buds peep out, 
 And e'en the hardy bramble cease to sprout. 
 Beneath dread Winter's level sheets of snow 
 The sweet nutritious turnip deigns to grow. 
 Till now imperious want and wide-spread dearth 
 Bid Labour claim her treasures from the earth. 
 On Giles, and such as Giles, the labour falls. 
 To strew the frequent load where hunger calls. 
 On driving gales sharp hail indignant flies, 
 And sleet, more irksome still, assails his eyes; 
 Snow clogs his feet; or if no snow is seen, 
 The lield with all its juicy store to screen. 
 Deep goes the frost, till every root ds found * 
 
 A mass of rolling ice upon the ground. 
 No tender ewe can break her nightly fast, 
 Nor heifer strong begin the cold repast, 
 Till Giles with pond'rous beetle foremost go, 
 And scatt'ring splinters fly at every blow ; 
 When pressing round him, eager tor the prize. 
 From their mix'd breath warm exhalations rise. 
 
 In beaded rows if snow-drops deck the spray 
 While Phoebus grants a momentary ray. 
 Let but a cloud's broad shadow intervene. 
 And stiffen'd into gems the drops are seen ; 
 And down the furrow 'd oak's broad southern side 
 Streams of dissolving rime no longer glide. 
 
 Though Night approaching bids for rest prepare, 
 Still the flail echoes through the frosty air, 
 
WINTER. 77 
 
 Nor stops till deepest shades of darkness come, 
 ^^ending at length the weary labourer home. 
 From him, with bed and nightly food supplied, 
 Throughout the yard^oused round on every side, 
 Deep-plunging Cows their rustling feast enjoy. 
 And snatch sweet mouthfuls from the passing 
 
 boy, . 
 Who moves unseen beneath his trailing load, 
 Fills the tall racks, and leaves a scatter'd road ; 
 Where oft the swine from ambush warm and dry 
 Bult out and scamper headlong to their sty, 
 ^^'hen Giles with well-known voice, already there, 
 Deigns them a portion of his evening care. 
 
 Him, tho' the cold may pierce, and storms 
 
 molest. 
 Succeeding hours shall cheer with warmth and 
 
 rest; 
 Ciladness to spread, and raise the grateful smile, 
 He hurls the faggot bursting from the pile, 
 And many a log and rifted trunk conveys, 
 To heap the fire, and wide extend the blaze. 
 That quivering strong through every opening flies, 
 Whilst smoky columns unobstructed rise. 
 For the rude architect, unknown to fame, 
 (Xor symmetry nor elegance his aim) 
 W'ho spread his floors of solid oak on high, 
 On beams rough-hewn, from age to age that lie, 
 ]iade his wide fabric unimpair'd sustain 
 Pomona's store, and cheese, and golden grain ; 
 
78 THE faumek's boy. 
 
 Bade from its central base, capacious laid, 
 The weil-wrought chimney rear its lofty head ; 
 Where since hath many a savoury ham been stored, 
 And tempests howl'd, ai^ Christmas gambols 
 roar'd. 
 
 Flat on the hearth the glowing embers lie, 
 And flames reflected dance in every eye : 
 There the long billet, forced at last to bend. 
 While gushing sap froths out at either end. 
 Throws round its welcome heat : — the ploughmar 
 
 smiles, 
 And oft the joke runs hard on slieepish Giles, 
 Who sits joint-tenant of the corner stool, 
 The converse shai-ing, though in duty's school ; 
 For now attentively 'tis his to hear 
 Interrogations from the master's chair. 
 
 " Left yeyour bleatingcharge, when daylight fled, 
 Near where the hay-stack lifts its snowy head 1 
 Whose fence of bushy furze, so close and warm. 
 May stop the slanting bullets of the storm. 
 For, hark ! it blows ; a dark and dismal night : 
 Heaven guide the traveller's fearful steps aright. 
 Now from the woods, mistrustful and sharp eyed, 
 The Fox in silent darkness seems to glide, 
 Stealing around us, listening as he goes 
 If chance the cock or stammering capon crows, 
 Or goose, or nodding duck, should darkling cry, 
 As if apprized of lurking danger nigh : 
 
Destruction waits them, Giles, if e'er you fail 
 To bolt their doors against the driving gale. 
 Strew'd you (still mindful of th' unshelter'd head) 
 Burdens of straw, the cattle's welcome bed ! 
 Thine heart should feel, what thou may'st hourly 
 
 see, 
 Thai dutyls basis is humanity. 
 Of pain's unsavoury cup though thou may'st 
 
 taste, 
 (The wrath of Winter from the bleak north-east,) 
 'i'hine utmost sufferings in the coldest day 
 A period terminates, and joys repay- 
 Perhaps e'en now, whilst here those joys we 
 
 boast, 
 Full many a bark rides down the neighbourin;^ 
 
 coast, 
 Where the high northern waves tremendous 
 
 roar, 
 Drove down by blasts from Norway's icy shore. 
 'J'he Sea-boy there, less fortunate than thou. 
 Feels all thy pains in all the gusts that blow ; 
 His freezing hands now drench'd, now dry, by 
 
 turns; 
 Now lo^t, now seen, the distant light that burns, 
 On some tall clilf upraised, a flaming guide, 
 That throws its friendly radiance o'er the tide 
 His labours cease not with declining day, 
 But toils and perils mark his watery way ; 
 And whilst in peaceful dreams secure we lie, 
 The rutljess ubir!v\ind.-- rage along the sky. 
 
80 THE faumek's coy. 
 
 Round his head whistling ; — and shall tiiou re- 
 pine, 
 Whilst this protecting roof still shelters thine 1" 
 
 Mild as the vernal shower, his words prevail. 
 And aid the moral precept of his tale: 
 His wond'ring hearers learn, and ever keep 
 These first ideas of the restless deep; 
 And, as the opening mind a circuit tries. 
 Present felicities in value rise. 
 Increasing pleasures every hour they find, 
 'i'he warmth more precious, and the shelter kind ; 
 Warmth that long reigning bids the eyelids close, 
 As through the blood its balmy influence goes. 
 When the cheer'd heart forgets fiitigues and cares. 
 And drowsiness alone dominion bears. 
 
 Sweet then the ploughman's slumbers, hale and 
 young, 
 When the last topic dies upon his tongue ; 
 Sweet then the bliss his transient dreams inspire, 
 Till chilblains wake him, or the snapping fire. 
 
 He starts, and ever thoughtful of his team. 
 Along the glittering snow a feeble gleam 
 Shoots from his lantern, as he yawning goes 
 To add fresh comforts to their night's repose ; 
 Diffusing fragrance as their food he moves, 
 And pats the jolly sides of those he loves. 
 
WINTER. 81 
 
 Thus full replenish'd, perfect ease possess'd, 
 
 From night till morn alternate food and rest, 
 
 No rightful cheer withheld, no sleep debarr'd, 
 
 Their each day's labour brings its sure reward. 
 
 Yet when from plough or lurnb'ring cart set free, 
 
 They taste awhile the sweets of liberty. 
 
 E'en sober Dobbin iifts his clumsy heel 
 
 And kicks, disdainful of the dirty wheel; 
 
 But soon, his frolic ended, yields again 
 
 To trudge the road, and wear the clinking chain. 
 
 iShort-sighted Dobbin ! thou canst only see 
 The trivial hardships that encompass thee : 
 Thy chains were freedom, and thy toils repose. 
 Could the poor post-horse tell thee all his woes, 
 8how thee his bleeding shoulders, and unfold 
 The dreadful anguish he endures for gold : 
 Hired at each call of business, lust, or rage, 
 'i'hat prompts the traveller on from stage to stage, 
 i^till 0n his strength depends their boasted speed ; 
 For them his limbs grow weak, or bare ribs bleed ; 
 And though he groaning quickens at command. 
 Their extra shilling in the rider's hand 
 Becomes his bitter scourge : — 'tis he must feel 
 'i'he double efforts of the lash and steel; 
 Till when, up-hill, the destined inn he gains, 
 And trembling under complicated pains, 
 Prone from his nostrils, darting on the ground, 
 His breath emitted, floats in clouds around : 
 6 
 
82 THE faPwMek's boy. 
 
 Drops chase each other down his chest and sides, 
 And spattered mud his native colour hides: 
 Through his svvohi veins the boiling torrent flows, 
 And every nerve a separate torture knows. 
 His harness loosed, he welcomes eager-eyed 
 The paiTs full draught that quivers by his side; 
 And joys to see the well-known stable door, 
 As the starved mariner the friendly shore. 
 
 Ah, well for him if here his sufferings ceased, 
 And ample hours of rest his pains appeased 
 But roused again, and sternly bade to rise. 
 And sliake refreshing slumber from his eyes, 
 Ere his exhausted spirits can return. 
 Or through his frame reviving ardour burn. 
 Come forth he must, though limping, maim'd, and 
 
 sore; 
 He hears the whip ; the chaise is At the door : — 
 The collar tightens, and again he feels 
 His half-heal'd wounds inflamed ; again the wheels 
 With tiresome sameness in his ears resound, 
 O'er blinding dust, or miles of flinty ground. 
 Thus nightly robb'd, and injured day by day. 
 His piecemeal murderers wear his life away. 
 What say'st thou, Dobbin? what though hounds 
 
 await 
 With open jaws the moment of thy fate, 
 No better fate attends his public race ; 
 His life is misery, and his end disgrace 
 
83 
 
 Then freely bear tliy burden to the mill ; 
 Obey but one short law, — thy driver's wilL 
 Affection to thy mem'ry ever true, 
 Shall boast of mighty loads that Dobbin drew ; 
 And back to childhood shall the mind with pride 
 Recount thy gentleness in many a ride 
 'J'o pond, or field, or village fair, when thou 
 Held'st high thy braided mane and comely brow 
 And oft the tale shall rise to homely fame 
 Upon thy gen'rous spirit and thy name. 
 
 Though faithful to a proverb we regard 
 The midnight Chieftain of the farmer's yard, 
 Boneath whose guardianship all hearts rejoice, 
 Woke by the echo of his hollow voice ; 
 Yet as the hound may falt'ring quit the pack, 
 Hnuffthe foul scent, and hasten yelping back, 
 And e'en the docile pointer know disgrace, 
 Thwarting the gen'ral instinct of his race ; 
 E'en so the mastiff, or the meaner cur, 
 At times will from the path of duty err, 
 (A pattern of fidelity by day ; 
 I3y night a murderer, lurking for his prey ,^ 
 And round the pastures or the fold will creep, 
 And, coward-like, attack the peaceful sheep. 
 Alone the wanton mischief he pursues. 
 Alone in reeking blood his jaws imbrues; 
 (^'hasing amain his frighten'd victims round, 
 'J'ill death in wild confusion strews the ground , 
 
84 THE FAKMER S DOY. 
 
 Then wearied out, to kennel sneaks away. 
 And licks his guilty paws till break of day. 
 
 The deed disco ver'd, and the news once spread. 
 Vengeance hangs o'er the unknown culprit's head : 
 And careful shepherds extra hours bestow 
 In patient watchings for the common foe; 
 A foe most dreaded now, when rest and peace 
 Shotjld wait the season of the flock's increase. 
 
 In part these nightly terrors to dispel, 
 <Jilcs, ere he sleeps, his little flockrmust tell. 
 From the fire-side with many a shrug he hies, 
 Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes, 
 And through th' unbroken stillness of the night 
 Shed on his path her beams of cheering light. 
 With saunt'ring step he climbs the distant stile, 
 Whilst all around him wears a placid smile ; 
 There views the white-robed clouds in clusters 
 
 driven, 
 And all the glorious pageantry of Heaven. 
 Low, on the utmost bound'ry of the sight. 
 The rising vapours catch the silver light ; 
 Thence Fancy measures, as they parting fly, 
 Which first will throw its shadow on the eye. 
 Passing the source of light ; and thence away, 
 Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. 
 Far yet above these wafted clouds are seen 
 (In a remoter sky, still more serene,) 
 
WINTER . 85 
 
 Others detach'd in ranges through the air, 
 Spotless as snow, and countless as they "re fair, 
 iScatter'd immensely wide from east to west, 
 The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest. 
 These, to the raptured mind,- aloud proclaim 
 Their Mighty Shepherd's everlasting name. 
 
 Whilst thus the loit'rer's utmost stretch of soul 
 Climbs the still clouds, or passes those that roll. 
 And loosed Imagination soaring goes 
 High o'er his home, and all his Uttle woes, 
 Time glides away ; neglected duty calls ! 
 At once from plains of light to earth he falls. 
 And down a narrow lane, well known by day. 
 With all his speed pursues his sounding way, 
 In thought still half absorb'd, and chill'd with 
 
 cold ; 
 When lo ! an object frightful to behold ; 
 A grisly spectre, cloth'd in silver gray, 
 Around whose feet the waving shadows play. 
 Stands in his path ! — He stops, and not a breath 
 Heaves from his heart, that sinks almost to death. 
 Loud the Owl halloos o'er his head unseen ; 
 All else is silent, dismally serene : 
 Some prompt ejaculation, whisper'd low. 
 Yet bears him up against the threat'ning foe ; 
 And thus poor Giles, though half inclined to fly, 
 Mutters his doubts, and strains his steadfast eye. 
 " 'Tis not my crimes thou com'st here to reprove ; 
 No murders stain my soul, no perjur'd love : 
 
S6 THE farmer's coy. 
 
 If thou 'it indeed what here thou seeni'st to be, 
 
 Thy dreadful mission cannot reach to me. 
 
 By parents taught still to mistrust mine eyes, 
 
 SiiU to approach each object of surprise, 
 
 Lest Fancy's formful visions should deceive 
 
 In moonlight paths, or glooms of falling eve, 
 
 This then 's the moment when my heart should try 
 
 To scan thy motionless deformity ; 
 
 But oh, the fearful task ! yet well I know 
 
 An aged ash, with many a spreading bough, 
 
 (Beneath whose leaves I've found a Summer's 
 
 bow'r, 
 Beneath whose trunk I've wesfther'd many a 
 
 show'r,) 
 Stands singly down this solitary way. 
 But far beyond where now my footsteps stay. 
 'Tis true, thus far I've come with heedless haste; 
 No reck'ning kept, no passing objects trac'd : — 
 And can I then have reach'd that very tree ? 
 Or is its reverend form assumed by theel" 
 The happy thought alleviates his pain : 
 He creeps another step ; then stops again ; 
 Till slowly as his noiseless feet draw near. 
 Its perfect lineaments at once appear ; 
 Its crown of shiv'ring ivy whispering peace, 
 And its white bark that fronts the moon's pale 
 
 face. 
 Now, whilst his blood mounts upwards, now he 
 
 knows 
 The solid gain that from conviction flows ; 
 
WIXTER. 87 
 
 And strenglhen'd confidence shall hence fulfil 
 (With conscious innocence more valued still) 
 The dreariest task that Winter nights can brinsj, 
 By church-yard dark, or grove, or fairy ring ; 
 Still buoying up the timid mind of youth, 
 'J'ill loit'ring reason hoists the scale of truth. 
 With these blest guardians Giles his course pursues, 
 Till numbering his heavy-sided ewes, 
 Surrounding stillness tranquiUize his breast, 
 And shape the dreams that wait his hours of rest. 
 
 As when retreating tempests we behold. 
 Whose skirts at length the azure sky unfold, 
 And full of murmurings and midnight wrath, 
 Slowly unshroud the smiling face of earth, 
 Bringing the bosom joy : so Winter flies ! 
 And see the source of life and light uprise ! 
 A height'ning arch o'er southern hills he bends: 
 Warm on the cheek the slanting beam descends. 
 And gives the reeking mead a brighter hue, 
 And draws the modest Primrose-bud to view. 
 Yet frosts succeed, and winds impetuous rush. 
 And hail-storms rattle through the budding bush ; 
 And night-faU'n lambs require the shepherd's 
 
 care. 
 And teeming ewes, that still their burdens bear; 
 Beneath whose sides to-morrow's dawn may see 
 The milk-white strangers bow the trembling knee : 
 At whose first birth the pow'rful instinct's seen 
 That fills with champions the daisied green ; 
 
88 THE rAR.lIER's BOY. 
 
 For ewes that stood aloof with cheerful .eye, 
 With stamping foot now men and dogs defy, 
 And obstinately faithful to their young, 
 ( ruard their first steps to join the bleating throng. 
 
 But casualties and death from damps and cold 
 Will still attend the well-conducted fold : 
 Her tender offspring dead, the dam aloud 
 ('alls, and runs wild amidst the unconscious 
 
 crowd : 
 And orphan'd sucklings raise the piteous cry ; 
 No wool to warm them, no defenders nigh. 
 And must her streaming milk then flow in vain 7 
 Must unregarded innocence compfain "? 
 No ! — ere this strong solicitude subside, 
 Maternal fondness may be fresh applied, 
 And the adopted stripling still may find 
 A parent most assiduously kind. 
 For this he's doom'd awhile disguised to range. 
 (For fraud or force must work the wish'd-for 
 
 change,) 
 For this his predecessor's skin he wears. 
 Till, cheated into tenderness and cares. 
 The unsuspecting dam, contented grown. 
 Cherish and guard the foundling as her own. 
 
 Thus all by turns to fair perfection rise ; 
 Thus twins are parted to increase their size : 
 Thus instinct yields as interest points the way, 
 Till the bright flock, augmenting every day, 
 
WINTER. 89 
 
 On sunny hills and vales of springing flowers, 
 With ceaseless clamour greet the vernal hours. 
 
 The humbler shepherd here with joy beholds 
 'i'h' approv'd economy of crowded folds, 
 And, in his small contracted round of cares, 
 Adjusts the practice of each hint he hears: 
 For boys with emulation learn to glow, 
 And boast their pastures, and their healthful show 
 Of well-grown lambs, the glory of the Spring ; 
 And field to field in competition bring. 
 
 K'en Giles, for all his cares and watchings past, 
 And all his contests with the wintry blast, 
 Claims a full share of that sweet praise bestow'd 
 By gazing neighbours, when along the road. 
 Or village green, his curly-coated throng 
 Suspends the chorus of the spinner's song ; 
 When Admiration's unafiected grace 
 Lisps from the tongue, and beams in every face : 
 Delightful moments! — Sunshine, Health, and 
 
 Joy, 
 Play round and cheer the elevated boy ! 
 " Another Spring!" his heart exulting cries; 
 " Another Year ! with promised blessings rise : — 
 Paternal Power ! from whom these blessings flow. 
 Teach me still more to wonder, more to know : 
 Seed time and harvest let me see again ; 
 Wander the leaf-strewn wood, the frozen plain : 
 
90 THE farmer's boy. 
 
 Let the first flower, corn-waving field, plain, tree, 
 Here round my home, still lift my soul to Thee ; 
 And let me ever, 'midst thy bounties, raise 
 An humble note of thankfulness and praise!" 
 
 April 23, 1798. 
 
RURAL TALES, 
 BALLADS, AND SONGS. 
 
 (91) 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The Poems here offered to the public were written 
 during the interval between the concluding and the 
 publishing of "The Farmer's Boy," an interval of 
 nearly two years. The pieces of a later date are, 
 " The Widow to her Hour Glass," " The Fakenhaiit 
 Ghost," " Walter and Jane," &c. At the time of pub- 
 lishing The Farmer's Boy, circumstances occurred 
 which rendered it necessary to submit these poems to 
 the perusal of my friends : under whose approbation 
 1 now give them, with some confidence as to their mo- 
 ral merit, to the judgment of the public. And as they 
 treat of villajre matters and rural scenes, it appears to 
 me not ill-timed to avow, that I have hopes of meeting 
 in some degree the approbation of my country. I was 
 not prepared for the decided, and, I may surely say, 
 extraordinary attention which the public has shown 
 towards The Farmer's Boy : the consequence has been 
 such as my true friends will rejoice to hear ; it has 
 produced me many essential blessings. And I feel pe- 
 culiarly gratified in finding that a poor man in England 
 may assert the dignity of Virtue, and speak of the im- 
 perishable beauties of Nature, and be heard, and heard 
 perhaps, with greater attention for his being poor. 
 
 (93) 
 
94 PREFACE- 
 
 Whoever thinks of me or my concerns, must neceg- 
 pavily indulge the pleasing idea of gratitude, and join 
 a thought of my first great friend, Mr. Lof[t. And on 
 this head, I believe every reader, who has himself any 
 feeling, will judge rightly of mine : if otherwise, I 
 would much rather he would lay down this volume, 
 and grasp hold of such fleeting pleasures as the world's 
 Iflfciness may afford him. I speak not of that gentle- 
 man as a public character, or as a scholar. Of the 
 former I know but little, and of the latter nothing. 
 But I know from experience, and I glory in this fair 
 opportunityof saying it, that his private life is a lesson 
 of morality; his manners gentle, his^heart sincere: 
 and I regard it as one of the most fortunate circum- 
 stances of my life, that my introduction to public no- 
 tice fell to so zealous and unwearied a friend.* 
 
 I have received miny honourable testimoi.ies of es- 
 teem from strangers ; letters without a name, but filled 
 with the most cordial advice, and almost a parental 
 an.\iety, for my safety under so great a share of public 
 applause. I beg to refer such friends to the great 
 teacher. Time ; and hope that he will hereafter give 
 me my deserts, and no more. 
 
 One piece in this collection will inform the reader 
 of my most pleasing visit to Wajcefield Lodge : books, 
 
 * T dare not take to myself a praise like this ; and 
 yet I was, perhaps, hardly at liberty to disclaim what 
 Bhould be mine and the endeavour of every one to de- 
 serve. This I can say, that I have reason to rejoice 
 that Mr. Gc'irge Bloonificld introduced The Farmer's 
 IJov to me. C. L. 
 
PRErACE. 95 
 
 golit'ude, and objects entirely new, brotight pleasures 
 which memory will always cherish. That noble and 
 worthy family, and all my immediate and unknown 
 friends, will, I hope, believe the sincerity of my thanks 
 for all their numerous favours, and candidly judge of 
 the poems before them. 
 
 R. BLOOMFIELB^ 
 
 Sept. 29. ISIO 
 
Since affixing the above date, an event of much greater 
 importance than any to which I ha^e been witness, 
 has taken place, to the universal joy (it is to be 
 hoped) of every inhabitant of Europe. My portion 
 of joy shall be expressed while it is warm. And the 
 reader will do sufficient justice, if he only believes 
 it to be sincere. — Oct. 10. 
 
 (96^ 
 
9r 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Halt ! ye legions, sheathe your steel 
 
 Blood grows precious ; shed no more : 
 Cease your toils ; your wounds to Iieal ; 
 
 Lo ! beams of Mercy reach the shore ! 
 From realms of everlasting light 
 
 The favour'd guest of Heaven is come : 
 Prostrate your banners at the sight, 
 
 And bear the glorious tidings home. 
 
 The plunging corpse, with half-closed eyes, 
 
 No more shall stain th' unconscious brine ; 
 Yon pendant gay, that streaming flies, 
 
 Idly around its start' shall twine. 
 Behold ! along th' ethereal sky, 
 
 Her beams o'er conquering navies spread, 
 Peace ! Peace ! the leaping sailors cry. 
 
 With shouts that might arouse the dead. 
 
 Then forth Britannia's thunder pours, 
 
 A vast reiterated sound ! 
 From line to line the cannon roars, 
 
 And spreads the blazing joy around. 
 7 
 
KUKAL TALES, ETC. 98 
 
 Return, ye brave ! your country calls ; 
 
 Return, return, your task is done : 
 While here the tear of transport falls, 
 
 To grace your laurels nobly won. 
 
 Albion Clifis — from age to age, 
 
 That bear the roaring storms of heav'n, 
 Did ever fiercer warfare rage. 
 
 Was ever Peace more timely given ? 
 Wake! sounds of joy; rouse, generous Isle ; 
 
 Let every patriot bosom glow : 
 Beauty, resume thy wonted smile. 
 
 And, Poverty, thy cheerful brow. 
 
 Boast, Britain, of thy glorious guests ; 
 
 Peace, Wealth, and Commerce, all thine own ; 
 Still on contented Labour rests 
 
 The basis of a lasting throne. 
 Shout, poverty ! 'tis Heaven that saves • 
 
 Protected Wealth, the chorus raise, 
 Ruler of War, of Winds, and Waves, 
 
 Accept a prostrate nation's praise. 
 
99 
 
 RICHARD AND KATE. 
 OR, FAIR-DAY. 
 
 A SUFFOLK BALLAD. 
 
 • 
 
 I. 
 
 " Come, Goody, stop your humdrum wheel. 
 Sweep up your orts, and get your hat; 
 
 Old joys reviv'd once more I feel, 
 
 'Tis Fair-day ; — ay, and more than that — 
 
 " Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say, 
 How many seasons here we've tarried T 
 
 'Tis forty years, this very day. 
 
 Since you and I, old Girl, were married ! 
 
 " Look out ; the sun shines warm and hright, 
 The stiles are low, the paths all dry ; 
 
 I know you cut your corns last night: 
 Come ; be as free from care as I. 
 
100 KURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 IT. 
 
 " For I'm resolved once more to see 
 That place where we so often met; 
 
 Though few have had more cares than we, 
 We've none just now to make us fret." 
 
 Kate scom'd to damp the generous flame 
 That warm'd her aged partner's breast : 
 
 Yet, ere determination came, 
 
 She thus some trifling doubts express'd: 
 
 TI. 
 
 " Night will come on ; when seated snug, 
 And you've perhaps begun some tale, 
 
 Can you then leave your dear stone mug 1 
 Leave all the folks, and all the alel" 
 
 " Ay, Kate, I wool ! because I know. 
 
 Though time has been we both could run, 
 
 Such days are gone and over now ; — 
 1 only mean to see the fun." 
 
 She straight slipp'd oflT the wall and band, 
 And laid aside her lucks and twitches; 
 
 And to the hutch she reach'd her hand, 
 And gave him out his Sunday breeches. 
 
RICHAKD AND KATE. 101 
 
 IX. 
 
 His mattock he behind the door, 
 And hedging-glovcs again replaced ; 
 
 And look'd across the yellow moor, 
 And urged his tott'ring spouse to haste. 
 
 The day was up, the air serene, 
 The firmament without a cloud ; 
 
 The bee humm'd o'er the level green. 
 
 Where knots of trembling cowslips bow'd. 
 
 And Richard thus, with heart elate, 
 As past things rush'd across his mind, 
 
 Over his shoulder talked to Kate, 
 
 Who, snug tuck'd up, walk'd slow behind. 
 
 " When once a giggling mawther you, 
 And I a red-faced chubby boy, 
 
 Sly tricks you play'd me not a few ; 
 For mischief was your greatest joy, 
 
 '« Once passing near this very tree, 
 A gotch of milk I'd been to fill, 
 
 You shoulder'd me, then laugh'd to see 
 Me and my gotch spin down the hill. 
 
102 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " 'Tis true," she said ; " but here hehold. 
 And marvel at the course of time ; 
 
 Though you and I are both grown old, 
 This tree is only in its prime !" 
 
 " Well, Goody, don't stand preaching now : 
 Folks don't preach sermons at a fair ; 
 
 We've rear'd ten boys and girls, you know 
 And I'll be bound they'll all be there.'^ 
 
 Now friendly nods and smiles had they, 
 From many a kind fair-going face ; 
 
 And many a pinch Kate gave away 
 While Richard kept his usual pace. 
 
 At length arrived amidst the throng, 
 
 Grand-children bawhng hemm'd them round : 
 
 And dragg'd them by the skirts along 
 Where gingerbread bestrew'd the ground. 
 
 And soon the aged couple spied 
 
 Their lusty sons and daughters dear ; — 
 
 When Richard thus exulting cried, 
 " Didn't I tell you they'd be here"?" 
 
KICUAKD AND EATE. 103 
 
 The cordial greetings of the soul 
 Were visible in every face ; 
 
 Aflection, void of all control, 
 Goveru'd with a resistless grace. 
 
 ' Tvvas good to see the honest strife, 
 
 Which should contribute most to please : 
 
 And hear the long-recounted life. 
 Of infant tricks, and happy days. 
 
 But now, as at some nobler places, 
 Amongst the leaders 'twas decreed 
 
 Time to begin the Dicky Races, 
 
 More famed for laughter than for speed. 
 
 Richard look'd on with wond'rous glee. 
 And praised the lad who chanced to win ; 
 
 " Kate, wasn't I such a one as he 1 
 As like him, ay, as pin to pin. 
 
 " Full fifty years are pass'd away 
 
 tSince I rode this sauie ground about ; 
 
 Lor' ! I was lively as the day ; 
 
 I won the High-lows out and out. 
 
104 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 «' Fm surely growing young again ; 
 
 I feel myself so kedge and plump, 
 From head to foot I've not one pain — 
 
 Nay, hang me if I couldn't jump." 
 
 Thus spoke the ale in Richard's pate — 
 
 A very little made him mellow ; 
 But still he loved his faithful Kate, 
 
 Who whisper'd thus, "JVIy good old fellow, 
 
 " Remember what you promised me, 
 And see the sun is getting low ; 
 
 The children want an hour, ye see, 
 To talk a bit before we go." 
 
 Like youthful lover most complying 
 
 He turn'd, and chuck'd her by the chin 
 
 Then all across the green grass hieing, 
 Right merry faces, all akin. 
 
 Their farewell quart, beneath a tree 
 That droop'd its branches from above, 
 
 Awaked the pure felicity 
 
 That waits upon parental love. 
 
RICHARD AND KATE. 105 
 
 Kate view'd Jier blooming daughters round, 
 And sons, who shook her wither'd hand : 
 
 Her features spoke what joy she found ; 
 But utterance had made a stand. 
 
 The children toppled on the green, 
 
 And bowl'd their fairings down the hill ; 
 
 Richard with pride beheld the scene, 
 Nor could he for his life sit still. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 A father's uncheck'd feelings gave 
 
 A tenderness to all he said ; 
 " My boys, how proud am I to have 
 
 My name thus round the country spread 
 
 " Through all my days I've labour'd hard. 
 And could of pains and crosses tell ; 
 
 But this is labour's great reward, 
 To meet ye thus and see ye well. 
 
 " My good old partner, when at home. 
 Sometimes with wishes mingles tears ; 
 
 Goody, says I, let what wool come. 
 
 We've nothing for them but our pray'rs. 
 
106 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 " May you be all as old as I, 
 
 And see your sons to manhood grow; 
 And many a time, before you die, 
 
 Be just as pleas'd as I am now." 
 
 Then, (raising still his mug and voice,) 
 " An old man's weakness don't despise ! 
 
 I love you well, ray girls and boys : 
 God bless you all ;" — so^ said his eyes — 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 For as he spoke, a big round drop 
 Fell, bounding on his ample sleeve : 
 
 A witness which he could not stop, 
 A witness which all hearts believe. 
 
 Thou, filial piety, wort there ; 
 
 And round the ring, benignly bright, 
 Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear. 
 
 And in the parting word — " Good night.' 
 
 With thankful hearts and strengthen'd love, 
 The poor old pair, supremely blest, 
 
 Saw the sun sink behind the grove, 
 And gain'd once more their lowly rest. 
 
107 
 
 WALTER AND JANE; 
 OR, THE POOR BLACKSMITH. 
 
 A COUNTRY TALE. 
 
 Bright was the summer sky, the mornings gay, 
 And Jane was young and cheerful as the day ; 
 Not yet to Love but Mirth she paid her vows, 
 And echo mock'd her as she call'd her cows. 
 Tufts of green broom, that full in blossom vied, 
 And graced with spotted gold the upland side. 
 The level fogs o'erlook'd ; too high to share ; 
 "So lovely Jane o'erlook'd the clouds of care. 
 No raeadow-flow'r rose fresher to the view, 
 That met her morning footsteps in the dew. 
 Where, if a nodding stranger eyed her charms. 
 The blush of innocence was up in arms, 
 Love's random glances struck th' unguarded mind, 
 And Beauty's magic made him look behind. 
 
 Duly as morning blush'd or twilight came, 
 Secure of greeting smiles and village fame, 
 
108 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 I 
 
 yhe pass' J the straw-roof d shed, in ranges where 
 Hung many a wcll-turn'd shoe and glitt'ring share ; 
 Where Walter, as the charmer tripp'd along, 
 Would stop his roaring bellows and his song. — 
 
 Dawn of affection ! Love's delicious sigh ! 
 (Jaught from the lightnings of a speaking eye, 
 That lead'st the heart to rapture or to woe, 
 'Twas Walter's fate thy raadd'ning power to know : 
 And scarce to know, ere in its infant twine, 
 As the blast shakes the tendrils of the vine, 
 The budding bliss that full of promise grew 
 The chilling blight of separation knew. 
 ^Scarce had he told his heart's unquiet case, 
 And Jane to shun him ceased to mend her pace, 
 And learnt to listen trembling as he spoke. 
 And fondly judge his words beyond a joke ; 
 When, at the goal that bounds our prospects here, 
 Jane's widow'd mistress ended her career. 
 Blessings attended her divided store, 
 The mansion sold, (Jane's peaceful home no more,) 
 A distant village own'd her for its Queen, 
 Another service, and another scene. 
 But could another scene so pleasing prove, 
 Twelve weary miles from Walter and from Love 1 
 The maid grew thoughtful : yet to fate resign'd, 
 Knev/ not the worth of what she left behind. 
 
 He, when at eve released from toil and heat, 
 ►Soon miss'd the smiles that taught his heart to beat. 
 
% WALTER AND JANE. 109 
 
 Each Sabbath-day of late was wont to prove 
 Hope's liberal feast, the holiday of love; 
 But now, upon his spirit's ebbing strength 
 Came each dull hour's intolerable length. 
 The next had scarcely dawn'd when Walter hied 
 O'er hill and dale, afiection for his guide : 
 O'er the brown heath his pathless journey lay. 
 Where screaming lapwings hail'd the op'ning day. 
 High rose the sun — the anxious lover sigh'd ; 
 His slipp'ry soles bespoke the dew was dried : 
 Her last farewell hung fondly on his tongue. 
 As o'er the tufted furze elate he sprung ; 
 Trifling impediments : his heart was light, 
 For Love and Beauty glow'd in fancy's sight ; 
 And soon he gazed on Jane's enchanting face, 
 Renew'd his passion, — but destroy'd his peace. 
 Truth, at whose shrine he bow'd, inflicted pain ; 
 ,And conscience whisper'd, "Never come again." 
 For now, his tide of gladness to oppose, 
 A clay-cold damp of doubts and fears arose ; 
 Clouds, which involve, 'midst love and reason's 
 
 strife, 
 The poor man's prospect when he takes a wife. 
 Though gay his journeys in the summer's prime, 
 Each seem'd the repetition of a crime ; 
 He never left her but with many a sigh, 
 When tears stole down his face, she knew not why. 
 Severe his task those visits to forego. 
 And feed his heart with voluntary woe, 
 
no RL'RAI, TAF.ES, KTC. « 
 
 \ci this he did : the wan moon circling found 
 His evenings cheerless, and his rest unsound; 
 And saw Ih' unquenched flame his bosom swell: 
 \\ hat were his doubts, thus let the story tell. 
 
 A month's sharp conflict only served to prove 
 'I'ho pow'r, as well as truth, of ^Valter's love. 
 Absence more strongly on his mind pourtray'd 
 His own sweet, injured, unoffending maid. 
 Once more he'd go: full resolute awhile. 
 But heard his native bells orj every stile. 
 The sound rccall'd him with a pow'rful charm. 
 The heath wide open'd, and the day was warm ; 
 There, where a bed of tempting green he found. 
 Increasing anguish weigh'd him to the ground ; 
 His well-grown limbs the scatter'd daisies press'd, 
 While his clench'd hand fell heavy on his breast. 
 
 " Why do I go in cruel sport to say, 
 ' I jovc thee, Jane, appoint the happy day ?' 
 Why seek her sweet ingenuous reply. 
 Then grasp her hand and proller — poverty ? 
 Why, if I love her and adore her name, 
 XVhy act like time and sickness on her frame? 
 Why should my scanty pittance nip her prime, 
 And chase away the rose before its time? 
 I'm young, 'tis true; the world beholds me free; 
 Labour ne'er show'd a frightful face to me; 
 Nature's first wants hard labour should supply ; 
 l!ut should it fail, 'twill be too late to flv, 
 
WALTER AND JAXE. Ill 
 
 Some summers hence, if nought our loves annoy, 
 The image of my Jane may Hsp her joy ; 
 Or blooming boys with imitative swing 
 May mock my arm, and make the anvil ring; 
 Then if in rags — but, O my heart, forbear, — 
 I love the girl, and why should I despair ] 
 And that I love her all the village knows; 
 Oft from my pain the mirth of others flows ; 
 As when a neighbour's steed with glancing eye 
 Saw his par'd hoof supported on my thigh : 
 Jane pass'd that instant ; mischief came of course; 
 I drove the nail awry, and lamed the horse ; 
 The poor beast limp'd ; I bore a master's frovvm, 
 A thousand times I wish'd the wound my own. 
 When to these tangling thoughts I've been resign'd, 
 Fury or languor has possess'd ray mind, 
 All eyes have stared, I've blown a blast so strong; 
 Forgot to smite at all, or smote too long. 
 IT at the ale-house door, with careless glee, 
 One drinks to Jane, and darts a look on me, 
 I feel that blu?h v?hich her dear name will bring; 
 I feel : — but, guilty love, 'tis not thy sting ! 
 Yet what are jeers? the bubbles of an hour! 
 Jane knows what love can do, and feels it pow'r . 
 In her mild eye fliir truth her moaning tells; 
 'Tis not in looks like her's that falsehood dwells. 
 As water shed upon a dusty way, 
 I've seen 'midst downward pebbles devious stray 
 If kindred drops an adverse channel keep, 
 The crystal friends toward each other creep; 
 
112 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 Near, and still nearer, rolls each little tide, 
 Th' expanding mirror swells on either side : 
 They touch — 'tis done — receding bound 'ries fly, 
 An instantaneous union strikes the eye : 
 So 'tis with us : for Jane would be my bride ; 
 Shall coward fears then turn the bliss aside I" 
 
 While thus he spoke he heard a gentle sound, 
 'I''hat scem'd a jarring footstep on the ground : 
 Ashamed of grief, he bade his eyes unclose, 
 And shook with agitation as he rose ; 
 All unprepared the sweet sorprise to bear, 
 Ilis heart beat high, for Jane herself was there. — 
 Flush'd was her cheek ; she seem'd the full-blown 
 
 flower. 
 For warmth gave loveliness a double pow'r. 
 Round her fair brow the deep confusion ran, 
 A waving handkerchief became her fan ; 
 Her lips, where dwelt sweet love and smiling 
 
 ease, 
 PulT'd gently back the warm assailing breeze. 
 " I've travell'd all these weary miles with pain, 
 To see my native village once again ; 
 And show my true regard for neighbour Hind ; 
 Not like you, Walter, she was always kind." 
 'Twas thus, each soft sensation laid aside, 
 She buoy'd her spirits up with maiden pride, 
 Disclaim'd her lo^i;, e'en while she felt the sting. 
 " What, come for Walter's sake ! 'Twas no such 
 
 thing." 
 
WALTi::; a.vd jane. 113 
 
 But when astonishment his tongue released, 
 Pride's usurpation in an instant ceased : 
 By force he cauglit her hand as passing by, 
 And gazed upon her halt-averted eye; 
 His heart's distraction and his boding fears 
 .slie heard, and answer'd with a tlood of tears ; 
 Precious relief; sure friends that forward press 
 To tell the mind's unspeakable distress. 
 Ye youths, whom crimson'd health and genuine 
 
 lire 
 Bear joyous on the wing of young desire, 
 Ye, who still bow to love's almighty sway, 
 What could true passion, what could Walter say 1 
 Age, tell rne true, nor shake your locks in vain, 
 Tread back your paths, and be in love again ; 
 In your young days did such a favouring hour 
 Show you the littleness of wealth and pow'r, 
 Advent'rous climbers of the mountain's brow 
 While Love, their master, spreads his couch below. 
 " My dearest Jane," the untaught Walter cried, 
 •As, half repell'd, he pleaded by her side, 
 " My dearest Jane, think of me as you may" — 
 Thus — still unutter'd what he strove to say, 
 They breath'd in sighs the an^ish of their minds, 
 And took the path that Jed to neighbour Hind's. 
 
 A secret joy the well-known roof inspired. 
 Small was its store, and little thl^ desired. 
 June dried her tears ; while Walter forward flew, 
 To aid the dame ; who to the brink updrew 
 
 1 8 
 
114 r.VKAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 The pond'rous bucket as they reach'd the well, 
 And scarcely with exhausted breath could tell 
 How welcome to her cot the blooming pair. 
 O'er whom she watch'd with a maternal care. 
 " What ails thee, Jane T' the wary matron cried. 
 With heaving breast the modest maid reply'd, 
 JN'ow gently moving back her wooden chair 
 To shun the current of the cooling air ; 
 " Not much, good dame ; I'm weary by the v^y ; 
 Perhaps, anon, I've something else to say." 
 Now, while the seed-cake crumbled on her knee. 
 And snowy jessamine peep'd in to see; 
 And the transparent lilac at the door. 
 Full to the sun its purple honours bore. 
 The clam'rous hen her fearless brood display 'd. 
 And march'd around ; while thus the matron 
 
 said : 
 <' Jane has been weeping, Walter : — prithee why '? 
 I've seen her laugh, and dance, but never cry. 
 But I can guess; with her you should have been, 
 When late I saw you loit'ring on the green. 
 I'm an old woman, and the truth may tell ; 
 I say then, boy, you have not used her well." 
 Jane felt for Walter^ felt his cruel pain, 
 And pity urged her e'en to tears again. 
 " Don't scold him, neighbour, he has much to say ; 
 Indeed, he came and met me by the way." 
 The dame resuAd — "Why then, my children, 
 
 why 
 Do such young bosoms heave the piteous sigh 1 
 
WALTER AND JANE. 115 
 
 The ills of life to you are yet unknown : 
 Death's shiv'ring shaft, and poverty's cold frown. 
 I've felt them both by turns; — but, as they pass'd, 
 Strong was my trust, and here I am at last. 
 VVl)en I dwelt, young and cheerful, down the 
 
 lane, 
 (And though I say it, I was much like Jane,) 
 O'er liow'ry fields with Hind I loved to stray, 
 And talk, and laugh, and fool the time away : 
 And care defied, who not one pain could give. 
 'Till the thought came of how we were to live ; 
 And then love plied his arrows thicker still, 
 And proved victorious, — as he always will. 
 We braved life's storm together ; while that drone. 
 Your poor old uncle, Walter, lived alone. 
 He died the other day ; when round his bed 
 No tender soothing tear affection shed — 
 Affection ! 'twas a plant he never knew : — 
 Why should he feast on fruits he never grew ?" 
 Walter caught fire; nor was he charm 'd alone 
 With conscious truth's firm elevated tone ; 
 Jane from her seat sprang forward, half afraid, 
 Attesting with a blush what Goody said. 
 Her lover took a more decided part : — 
 (Oh! 'twas the very chord that touch'd his 
 
 heart,) — 
 Alive to the best feelings man can prize, 
 A bridegroom's transport sparkled in his eyes ; 
 Love, conquering power, with unrestricted range, 
 Silenced the arguments of time and change ; 
 
116 KUKAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 And led his vot'ry on, and bade him view, 
 And prize the light-wing'd moments as they flew ; 
 All doubts gave way, all retrospective lore. 
 Whence cooler reason tortured him before ; 
 Comparison of times, the lab'rer's hire, 
 And many a truth reflection might inspire, 
 Sunk powerless. " Dame, I am a fool," he cried ; 
 " Alone I might have reason'd till I died. 
 I caused those tears of Jane's — but as they fell. 
 How much I felt none but ourselves can tell. 
 While dastard fears withheld me from her sight, 
 Sighs reign'd by day and hi^^lcous dreams by night ; 
 'Tvvas then the soldier's pluine and rolling drum 
 Seem'd for awhile to strike my sorrows dumb ; 
 To fly from care then half resolved I stood, 
 And without horror mused on fields of blood ; 
 But hope prevml'd. — Be then the sword resign'd. 
 And I'll make shares for those that stay behind : 
 And you, sweet girl," — He would have added more 
 Had not a glancing shadow at the door 
 Announced a guest, who bore with winning grace 
 His well-timed errand pictured in his face. 
 Around with silent reverence they stood ; 
 A blameless reverence — the man was good. 
 Wealth he had some, a match for his desires, 
 First on the list of active country 'squires. 
 Seeing the youthful pair with downcast eyes, 
 Unmoved by summer flowers and cloudless skies, 
 Pass slowly by his gate, his book resign'd, 
 He watch'd their steps, and follow'd far jjehind, 
 
■WALTER A>'D JAXE. ] 17 
 
 Bearing with inward joy, and honest pride, 
 
 A trust of Walter's kinsman ere he died, 
 
 A hard-earn'd mite, deposited with care. 
 
 And with a miser's spirit worshipp'd there. 
 
 He found what oft the gen'rous bosom seeks, 
 
 In the Dame's court'sies and Jane's blushing 
 
 cheeks, 
 That consciousness of worth, that freeborn grace, 
 Which waits on virtue in the meanest place. 
 
 " Young man, I'll not apologize to you, 
 Xor name intrusion, for my news is true ; 
 'Tis duty brings me here : your wants I've heard, 
 And can relieve: yet be the dead revered. 
 Here, in this purse, (what should have cheer'd a 
 
 wife,) 
 Lies half the savings of your uncle's life! 
 I know your history, and your wishes know ; 
 And love to see the seeds of virtue grow. 
 I've a spare shed that fronts the public road. 
 Make that your shop, I'll make it your abode. 
 Thus much from me, — the rest is but your due." 
 That instant twenty pieces sprung to view. 
 Goody, her dim eyes weeping, raised her brow, 
 And saw the young pair look they knew not how; 
 Perils and power while humble minds forego. 
 Who gives them half a kingdom gives 4hem woe; 
 Comforts may be procured and want defied, 
 Heav'ns ! with how small a sum, when right ap- 
 plied ! 
 
118 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 Give love and honest industry their way, 
 Clear but the sun-rise of life's little day, 
 Those we term poor shall oft that wealth obtain, 
 For which th' ambitious sigh, but sigh in vain : 
 Wealth that still brightens as its stores increase ; 
 The calm of conscience, and the reign of peace. 
 
 Walter's enamour'd soul, from news like this, 
 Now felt the dawnings of his future bliss ; 
 E'en as the red-breast, shelt'ring in a bower. 
 Mourns the short darkness of a passing shower. 
 Then, while the azure sky extends around, 
 Darts on a worm that breaks the moisten'd ground. 
 And mounts the dripping fence, with joy elate. 
 And shares the prize triumphant with his mate. 
 So did the youth; — the treasure straight became 
 An humble servant to love's sacred flame : 
 Glorious subjection ! — Thus his silence broke : 
 Joy gave him words, still quick'ning as he spoke. 
 
 " Want was my dread, my wishes were but few ; 
 Others might doubt, but Jane those wishes knew. 
 This gold may rid my heart of pains and sighs ; 
 But her true love is still my greatest prize. 
 Jjong as I live, when this bright day comes round, 
 Beneath my roof your noble deeds shall sound ; 
 But first, to make ray gratitude appear, 
 I'll shoe your honour's horses for a year; 
 If clouds should threaten when your corn is down, 
 I'll lend a hand, and rammon half the town ; 
 
WALXEU A-\D JA.\E. 119 
 
 If good betide, I'll sound it in my songs; 
 And be the lirst avenger of your wrongs; 
 Though rude in manners, free I hope to live : 
 This ale's not mine, no ale have I to give ; 
 Yet, sir, though fortune frown'd when I was born, 
 Let's drink eternal friendship from this horn. 
 How much our present joy to thee we owe, 
 .Soon our three bells shall let the neighbours 
 
 know; 
 The sound shall raise e'en stooping age awhile. 
 And every maid shall meet you with a smile ; 
 Long may you live" — The wish like lightning 
 
 flew, 
 By each repeated as the 'squire withdrew ; 
 « Long may you live," his feehng heart r(?join'd. 
 Leaving well pleased such happy souls behind. 
 Hope promised fair to cheer them to the end. 
 With love their guide, and Goody for their friend. 
 
120 
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Near the high roaJ, upon a winding stream, 
 An honest miller rose to weaUh and fame : 
 The noblest virtues checr'd his lengthen'd days. 
 And all the country echo'd with his praise : 
 His wife, the doctress of the neighb'ring poor,* 
 Drew constant pray'rs and blessings round his 
 door. 
 
 One summer's night, (the hour of rest was 
 come,) 
 Darkness unusual overspread their home ; 
 A chilling blast was felt : the foremost cloud 
 Sprinkled the bubbUng pool ; and thunder loud, 
 Though distant yet, menaced the country round, 
 And fill'd the heavens with its solemn sound. 
 
 * This village and the poor of this neighbourhood 
 know what it is to have possessed such a blessing, and 
 feel, at this moment, what it is to lose it by death. 
 
THE miller's maid. 121 
 
 Who can retire to rest when tempests lour? 
 JS'or wait the issue of the corning hour ] 
 Meekly resign'd she sat, in anxious pain; 
 He fill'd his pipe, and iisten'd to the rain 
 'J'hat hatter'd furiously their strong abode, 
 Jtoar'd in the dam, and lash'd the pebbled road; 
 When, mingling with the storm, confused and 
 
 wild. 
 They heard, or thought they heard, a screaming 
 
 child; 
 'J'he voice approach'd ; and 'midst the thunder's 
 
 roar. 
 Now loudly begg'd for mercy at the door. 
 
 Mercy was there : the miller heard the call ; 
 His door he open'd ; when a sudden squall 
 iJrove in a wretched girl; who weeping stood, 
 M'hilst the cold rain dripp'd from her in a flood. 
 With kind officionsness the tender dame 
 lioused up the dying embers to a flame; 
 Dry clothes procured, and cheer'd her shiv'ring 
 
 guest, 
 And sooth'd the sorrows of her infant breast. 
 But as she stripp'd her shoulders, lily-white. 
 What marks of cruel usage shock'd their sight I 
 Weals, and blue wounds, most piteous to behold. 
 Upon a child yet scarcely ten years old. 
 
 The miller felt his indignation rise, 
 Yet, as the weary stranger closed her eyes, 
 
122 EUKAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 And seemed fatigu'd beyond her strength and years, 
 " Sleep child, (he said,) and wipe away your 
 
 tears." 
 They watch'd her slumbers till the storm was done; 
 When thus the generous man again begun : 
 " See, flutt'ring sighs that rise against her will, 
 And agitating dreams disturb her still ! 
 Dame, we should know, before we go to rest. 
 Whence comes this girl, and how she came dis- 
 
 tress'd : 
 Wake her, and ask ; for she is sorely bruised ; 
 I long to know by whom she's thus misused — 
 Child, what's your name 1 how came you in the 
 
 storm ] 
 Have you no home to keep you dry and warm ? 
 Who gave you all those wounds your shoulders 
 
 show 1 
 Where are you parents 1 Whither would you go ? " 
 
 The stranger, bursting into tears, look'd pale. 
 And this the purport of her artless tale : 
 " I have no parents ; and no friends beside: 
 I well remember when my mother died : 
 My brother cried, and so did I that day : 
 We had no father ; he was gone away ; 
 That night we left our homes new clothes to wear, 
 The workhouse found them; we were carried 
 
 there. 
 We loved each other dearly ; when we met, 
 We always shared what trifles we could get. 
 
THE AIILLEr. S ilAlD. 123 
 
 >ut George was older by a year than me : — 
 fie parted from me, and was sent to sea. 
 ' Good-bye, dear Phoebe,' the poor fellow said ; 
 Perhaps he'll come again ; perhaps he's dead. 
 When I grew strong enough, I went to place : 
 My mistress had a sour, ill-natured face ; 
 And though I've been so often beat and chid, 
 I strove to please her, sir ; indeed I did. 
 Weary and spiritless to bed I crept, 
 And always cried at night before I slept. 
 This morning I offended, and I bore 
 A cruel beating, worse than all before. 
 Unknown to all the house, I ran away ; 
 And thus far travell'd through the sultry day ; 
 And, O don't send me back. ! I dare not go — " 
 " I send you back !" the miller cried, " no, no." 
 The appeals of wretchedness had weight with hiui, 
 And sympathy would warm him every limb ; 
 He mutter'd, glorying in the work begun, 
 "Well done, my little wench, 'twas nobly done !" 
 Then said, with looks more cheering than the lire, 
 And feeling such as pity can inspire, 
 " My house has childless been these many a year ; 
 While you deserve it you shall tarry here." 
 The orphan mark'd the ardour of his eye, 
 Bless'd his kind words, and thank'd him with a 
 sigh. 
 
 Thus was the sacred compact doubly seal'd ; 
 Thus were her spirits raised, her bruises heal'd. 
 
]-Ji KURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 ThLxnkful and cheerful too, no more afraid, 
 Thus little Phcebe was the Miller's Maid, 
 (irateful they found her; patient of control; 
 A most bewitching gentleness of soul 
 Made pleasure of what work she had to do : 
 She grew in stature and in beauty too. 
 
 Five years she pass'd in this dehghtful home ; 
 Five happy years : but when the sixth was come, 
 The miller, from a market-town hard by, ' 
 
 fcrought home a sturdy youth, his strength to try ; 
 To raise the sluice-gates early every morn, 
 To heave his powder'd sacks, and grind his corn : 
 And meeting Phoebe, whom he loved so dear, 
 " I've brought you home a husband, girl ; d'ye 
 
 hear] 
 He begg'd for work ; his money seem'd but scant ; 
 Those that will work, 'tis pity they should want. 
 So use him well, and we shall shortly see 
 Whether he merits what I've done, like thee." 
 
 Now throbb'd her heart, — a new sensation 
 quite, — 
 Whene'er the comely stranger was in sight : 
 For he at once assiduously strove 
 To please so sweet a maid, and win her love : 
 At every corner stopp'd her in her way. 
 And saw fresh beauties opening every day. 
 He took delight in tracing in her face 
 The mantling blush, and every native grace 
 
THE miller's maid. 125 
 
 That sensibility would bring to view, 
 
 When love he mention'd; — Love and Honour 
 
 true ; 
 But Phoebe still was shy, and wish'd to know 
 More of the honest youth, whose manly brow, 
 She verily believed, was truth's own throne, 
 And all his words as artless as her own : 
 Most true she judged : yet long the youth forbore 
 Divulging how, and where, he lived before ; 
 And seem'd to strive his history to hide, 
 Till fair esteem enlisted on his side. 
 The miller saw, and mention'd in his praise, 
 The prompt fidelity of all his ways : 
 Till in a vacant hour, the dinner done, 
 One day he joking cried, <' Come here, my son ! 
 'Tis pity that so good a lad as you 
 Beneath my roof should bring disorders new ! 
 But here's my Phoebe, — once so light and airy, 
 She'd trip along the passage like a fairy, — 
 Has lost her swiftness quite, since here you 
 
 . came : — 
 And yet I can't perceive the girl is lame ! 
 The obstacles she meets with still fall thicker : 
 Old as I am, Pd turn the corner quicker." 
 The youth blush'd deep, and Phoebe hung her 
 
 head ; 
 The good man smiled, and thus again he said : 
 " Not that I deem it matter of surprise. 
 That you should love to gaze at Phoebe's eyes; 
 But be explicit, boy; and deal with honour, — 
 I feel my happiness depend upon her. 
 
12r) RUl^AL TALES, ETC. 
 
 When here you came you'd sorrow on your brow ; 
 
 And I've forbore to question you till now. 
 
 First, then, say wliat thou art." He instant 
 
 bow't], 
 And thus, in Phoebe's hearing, spoke aloud. 
 
 " Thus far experienced, sir, in you I find 
 All tliat is generous, fatherly, and kind ; ' 
 
 And while you look for proofs of real worth, 
 You'll not regard the meanness of my birth. 
 When, pennyless and sad, you met with me, 
 I'd jui^t escaped the dangers of the sea; 
 Itesolved to try my fortune on the shore, 
 'J'o get my bread, and trust the waves no more : 
 Having no home, nor parents, left behind, 
 I'd all my fortune, all my friends, to find. 
 Keen disappointment wounded me that morn: 
 For, trav'lling near the spot where I was born, 
 I at the well-known door where I was bred. 
 Inquired who still was living, who was dead: 
 But first, and most, 1 sought, with anxious fear, 
 Tidings to gain of her who once was dear; 
 A girl, with all the meekness of the dove, 
 The constant sharer of my childhood's love; 
 She call'd me Brother: — which I heard with 
 
 pride. 
 Though now suspect we are not so allied. 
 Thus much I learn'd; (no more the churls would 
 
 say ;) 
 She went to service, and she ran away ; 
 
 J 
 
THE MILLER S MAID. 127 
 
 Anil scandal added" — "Hold !" the miller cried, 
 And, in an instant, stood at Phoebe's side; 
 For he observed, while list'ning to the tale, 
 Her spirits falter'd, and her cheeks turn'd pale ; 
 Whilst her clasp'd hands descended to her knee, 
 She sinking whisper'd forth, " O God, 'tis he!" 
 'J'he good man, though he guess'd the pleasing 
 
 truth, 
 Was far too busy to inform the youth ; 
 But stirr'd himself amain to aid his wife, 
 Who soon restored the trembler back to life. 
 Awhile insensible she still appear'd ; 
 But, " 0, my brother," was distinctly heard : 
 Th' astonish'd youth now held her to his breast; 
 And tears and kisses soon explain'd the rest. 
 
 Past deeds now from each tongue alternate fell ; 
 For news of dearest import both could tell. 
 Fondly, from childhood's tears to youth's full prime, 
 They match'd the incidents of jogging time; 
 And proved that, when with tyranny oppress'd 
 Poor Phoebe groan'd with wounds and broken rest, 
 George felt no less: was harass'd and forlorn; 
 A rope's end follow'd him from night till morn. 
 And in that very storm when Phoebe fled. 
 When the rain drench'd her yet unshelter'd head ; 
 That very storm he on the ocean braved, 
 The vessel founder'd, and the boy was saved ! 
 Mysterious heaven ! And, O, with what delight 
 She told the happy issue of her flight : 
 
123 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 To his charm'd heart a Hving picture drew ; 
 
 And gave to hospitality its due ! 
 
 The hst'ning host observed the gentle pair, 
 
 And ponder'd on the means that brought them 
 
 there : 
 Convinced, while unimpeach'd their virtue stood, 
 'Twas heaven's high will that he should do them 
 
 good. 
 
 But now the anxious dame, impatient grown, 
 Demanded what the youth had heard or known^ 
 Whereon to ground those doubts but just ex- 
 
 press'd ; 
 Doubts which must interest the feeling breast : 
 " Her brother wert thou, George 1 How ] prithee 
 
 say, 
 Can'st thou forego, or cast that name away V 
 
 " No living proofs have I," the youth replied, 
 That we by closest ties are not allied ; 
 But in my memory live, and ever will, 
 A mother's dying words — I hear them still : 
 She said, to one who watch 'd her parting breath, 
 * Don't separate the children at my death. 
 They're not both mine; but' — here the scene was 
 
 closed. 
 She died ; and left us helpless and exposed : 
 Nor time hath thrown, nor reason's opening power, 
 One friendly ray on that benighted hour." 
 
THE miller's maid. 129 
 
 Ne'er did the chieftains of a warring state 
 Hear from the oracle their half-told fate 
 With more religious fear, or more suspense, 
 Than Phoebe now endured : — for every sense 
 Became absorb'd in this unwelcome theme ; 
 Nay, every meditation, every dream, 
 Th' inexplicable sentence held to view. 
 " They're not both mine," was every morning 
 
 new : 
 For, till this hour, the maid had never proved 
 Mow far she was enthrall'd, how much she loved ; 
 In that fond character he first appear'd, 
 His kindness charm'd her, and his smiles endear'd : 
 'i'his dubious mystery the passion cross'd ; 
 Her peace was wounded, and her lover lost. 
 For George vi'ith all his resolution strove 
 To check the progress of his growing love ; 
 Or, if he e'er indulged a tender kiss, 
 Th' unravell'd secret robb'd him of his bliss ; 
 Health's foe, Suspense, so irksome to be borne. 
 An ever-piercing and retreating thorn. 
 Hung on their hearts, when nature bade them rise, 
 And stole content's bright ensign from their eyes. 
 
 The good folks saw the change, and giicved to 
 find 
 These troubles labouring in Phoebe's mind ; 
 They loved them both ; and wilii one voice pro- 
 posed 
 The only means whence truth might be disclosed ; 
 9 
 
130 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 That, when the summer months should shrink the 
 
 rill, ( 
 
 And scarce its languid stream would turn the mil!, 
 When the spring broods, and pigs, and lambs 
 
 were rear'd, 
 (A time when George and Phoebe might be 
 
 spared,) 
 Their birth-place they should visit once again, 
 To try with joint endeavours to obtain 
 From record, or tradition, what might be 
 To chain, or set their chain'd affections free : 
 Affinity beyond all doubts to prove ; 
 Or clear the road for nature and for love. 
 
 Never, till now, did Phoebe count the hours. 
 Or think May long, or wish away its flowers ; 
 With mutual sighs both fann'd the wings of time ; 
 As we climb hills and gladden as we climb, 
 And reach at last the distant promised seat. 
 Casting the glowing landscape at our feet. 
 Oft had the morning rose with dew been wet, 
 And oft the journeying sun in glory set, 
 Beyond the willow'd meads of vigorous grass. 
 The steep green hill, and woods they were to pass ; 
 When now the day arrived : impatience reign'd ; 
 And George, — by trifling obstaces dctain'd, — 
 His bending blackthorn on the threshold press'd, 
 Survey'd the windward clouds, and hoped the best. 
 Phoebe, attired with every modest grace, 
 While health and beauty revell'd in her face, 
 
THE MILLER S MAID. 131 
 
 Came forth ; but soon evinced an absent mind, 
 
 For back she turn'd for something left behind ; 
 
 Again the same, till George grew tired of home, 
 
 And peevishly exclaim'd, " Come, Phoebe, come." 
 
 Another hindrance j^et he had to feel ; 
 
 As from the, door they tripp'd with nimble heel, 
 
 A poor old man, foot-founder'd and alone. 
 
 Thus urgent spoke, in trouble's genuine tone : 
 
 " My pretty maid, if happiness you seek, 
 
 May disappointment never fade your cheek ! — 
 
 Yours be the joy ; — yet, feel another's woe : 
 
 O leave some little gift before you go." 
 
 His words struck home ; and back she turn'd again 
 
 (The ready friend of indigence and pain,) 
 
 To banish hunger from his shatter'd frame ; 
 
 And close behind her, lo, the miller came. 
 
 With jug in hand, and cried, " George, why such 
 
 haste? 
 Here, take a draught, and let that soldier taste 1" 
 " Thanks for your bounty, sir," the veteran said ; 
 Threw down his wallet, and made bare his head ; 
 And straight began, tho' mix'd with doubts and 
 
 fears, 
 Th' unprefaced history of his latter years. 
 " I bross'd th' Atlantic with my comrades brave. 
 Where sickness sweeps whole regiments to the 
 
 grave, 
 Yet I've escaped ; and bear my arms no more ; 
 My age discharged me when I came on shore. 
 
132 RURAL TALIiS, ETC. 
 
 My wife, I've heard," — and here he wiped hfe 
 
 eyes — 
 *' In the cold corner of the church-yard lies. 
 By lier consent it was I left my home ; 
 Employment fail'd, and poverty was come ; 
 The bounty tempted me ; — she had it all : 
 We parted ; and I've seen my betters fall. 
 Yet, as I'm spared, though in this piteous case, 
 I'm trav'lling homeward to my native place; 
 Though should I reach that dear remember'd spot, 
 Perhaps old Granger will be quite forgot." 
 
 All eyes beheld young George with vponder 
 
 start : 
 (Strong were the secret bodings of his heart; 
 Yet not indulged : for he with doubts survey'd 
 By turns the stranger and the lovely maid. 
 '' Had you no children ?" — '< Y^es, young man, I'd 
 
 two ; 
 A boy, if still he lives, as old as you ; 
 Yet not my own ; but likely so to prove; 
 Though but the pledge of an unlawful love : 
 I cherish'd him to hide a sister's shame : 
 He shared my best affections, and my name. 
 But why, young folks, should I detain you herel 
 Go : and may blessings wait upon your cheer. 
 I, too, will travel on ; perhaps to find 
 The only treasure that I left behind. 
 Such kindly thoughts my fainting hopes revive. 
 PhcBbe, my cherub, art thou still alive 1" 
 
THE culler's maid. 133 
 
 Could nature hold ? — could youthful love for- 
 bear] 
 George clasp'd the wond'ring maid, and whispered 
 
 " There ! 
 You're mine for ever ! — O, sustain the rest ; 
 And hush the tumult of your throbbing breast." 
 Then to the soldier turn'd with manly pride, 
 And fondly led his long-intended bride. 
 " Here see your child ; nor wish a sweeter flower. 
 'Tis George that speaks ; thou'lt blcs.s the happy 
 
 hour! — 
 Nay, be composed ; for all will yet be well, 
 'I'hough here our history's too long to tell." 
 
 A long-lost father found, the mystery clear'd, 
 What mingled transports in her face appear'd ! 
 The gazing veteran stood with hands upraised — 
 " Art thou indeed my child 1 then, God be 
 
 praised." 
 O'er his rough cheeks the tears profusely spread, 
 Such as fools say become not men to shed ; 
 Past hours of bliss, regenerated charms. 
 Rose, when he felt his daughter in his arms : 
 So tender was the scene, the generous dame 
 Wept, as she told of Phoebe's virtuous fame. 
 And the good host, with gestures passing strange. 
 Abstracted seem'd through fields of joy to range ; 
 Rejoicing that his favour'd roof should prove 
 ^'irtue'a asylum, and the nurse to love ; 
 
]34 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 Rejoicing that to him the task was given. 
 While his full soul was mounting up to heav'n. 
 
 But now, as from a dream his reason sprung, 
 And heartiest greetings dwelt upon his tongue : 
 The sounding kitchen floor at once received 
 The happy group, with all their fears relieved ; 
 '' Soldier," he cried, " you've found your girl, 'tis 
 
 true : 
 But suffer me to be a father, too ; 
 For, never child that bless'd a parent's knee, 
 Could show more duty than she has to me. 
 Strangely she came ; affliction chased her hard : 
 I pitied her ; — and this is my reward ! 
 Here sit you down ; recount your perils o'er. 
 Henceforth be this your home; and grieve no 
 
 more : 
 Plenty hath shower'd her dewdrops on ray head; 
 Care visits not my table, nor my bed. 
 My heart's warm wishes thus then I fulfil : 
 My dame and I can live without the mill : 
 George, take the whole; I'll near you still re- 
 main. 
 To guide your judgment in the choice of grain ; 
 In virtue's path commence your prosperous life, 
 And from my hand receive your worthy wife. 
 Rise, Phoebe ; rise, my girl ! — kneel not to me, 
 But to that Pow'r who interposed for thee. 
 Intet^rity hath mark'd your favourite youth; 
 Fair budding honour, constancy, and truth ; 
 
THE miller's maid. 135 
 
 Go to his arms; and may unsullied joys 
 Bring smiling round me rosy girls and boys ! 
 I'll love them for thy sake. And may your days 
 Glide on, as glides the stream that never stays; 
 Bright as whose shingled bed, till hfe's decline, 
 May all your worth, and all your virtues shine!" 
 
136 
 
 THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. 
 
 Co3iE, friend, I'll turn thee up again : 
 Companion of the lonely hour ! 
 Spring thirty times hath fed with ram 
 And clothed with leaves my humble bower, 
 
 Since thou hast stood 
 
 In frame of wood, 
 On chest or window by my side : 
 At every birth still thou wert near, 
 Still spoke thine admonitions clear — 
 
 And, when my husband died. 
 
 II. 
 I've often watch'd thy streaming sand, 
 And seen the growing mountains rise, 
 And often found life's hopes to stand 
 On props as weak in wisdom's eyes : 
 
 Its conic crown 
 
 Still sliding down. 
 Again heap'd up, then down again; 
 The sand above more hollow grew. 
 Like days and years still filt'ring through, 
 
 And mingling joy with pain. 
 
THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. 1 )7 
 
 While thus I spin, and sometimes sing, 
 (For now and then my heart will glow,) 
 Thou measur'st time's expanding wing. 
 By thee the noontide hour I know ; 
 
 Though silent thou. 
 
 Still shalt thou flow, 
 And jog along thy destined way : 
 But when I glean the sultry fields. 
 When earth her yellow harvest yields, 
 
 Thou gett'st a holiday. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Steady as truth, on either end 
 Thy daily task performing well, 
 Thou'rt meditation's constant friend, 
 And strik'st the heart without a bell ; 
 
 Come, lovely May ! 
 
 Thy lengthen'd day 
 Shall gild once more my native plain ; 
 Curl inward here, sweet woodbine flower ;- 
 Companion of the lonely hour, 
 
 I'll turn thee up again. 
 
138 
 
 MARKET NIGHT. 
 
 " O wiBfDs ! howl not so long and loud ; 
 
 Nor with your vengeance arm the snow ; 
 Bear hence each heavy-loaded cloud : 
 
 And let the twinkling star-beams glow. 
 
 " Now sweeping floods rush down the slope, 
 Wide scattering ruin — Stars, shine soon ; 
 
 No other light my love can hope : 
 Midnight will want the joyous moon. 
 
 « O guardian spirits ! — Ye that dwell 
 
 Where woods, and pits, and hollow ways 
 
 The lone night-trav'ller's fancy swell 
 With fearful tales of older days, — 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Press round him, — guide his willing, steed 
 Through darkness, dangers, currents, snows j 
 
 Wait where, from shelt'ring thickets freed, 
 The dreary heath's rude whirlwind blows ; 
 
MARKET XIGHT. 139 
 
 ** That o'er the hill with furious svi/eep 
 
 Now writhes, now rends the shiv'ring tree — 
 
 Sure-footed beast, thy road thou'lt keep: 
 Nor storm nor darkness startles thee !" 
 
 " O blest assurance, (trusty steed,) 
 To thee the buried road is known ; 
 
 Home, all the spur thy footsteps need, 
 When loose the frozen rein is thrown. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Between the roaring blasts that shake 
 The naked alder at the door, 
 
 Though not one prattler to me speak, 
 Their sleeping sighs delight me more. 
 
 " Sound is their rest: — they little know 
 What pain, what cold, their father feels : 
 
 But dream, perhaps, they see him now, 
 While each the promised orange peels. 
 
 " Would it were so ! — the fire burns bright. 
 And on the warming trencher gleams ; 
 
 In expectation's raptured sight 
 How precious his arrival seems ! 
 
140 KURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 X. 
 
 " I'll look abroad ! — 'tis piercing cold I 
 How the bleak wind assails his breast ! 
 
 Yet there the parting clouds unfold ; 
 The storm is verging o'er the west. 
 
 " There shines a star ! — O welcome sight . — 
 Through the thin vapours bright'ning still : 
 
 Yet, 'twas beneath the fairest night 
 The murd'rer stain'd yon lonely hill. 
 
 " Mercy, kind Heaven ! such thoughts dispel 
 No voice, no foot is heard around ! 
 
 Perhaps he's near the haunted well ! 
 But Dapple knows each inch of ground. 
 
 " Distressing hour ! uncertain fate ! 
 
 O mercy, mercy, guide him home ! — 
 Hark ! — then I heard the distant gate, — 
 
 Repeat it, echo ; quickly, come ! 
 
 " One minute now will ease my fears — 
 Or, still more wretched must I be ] 
 
 No ! surely heaven has spared our tears : 
 I see him, clothed in snow ; — 'tis he.— 
 
MARKET NIGHT. 141 
 
 " Where have you stay'd ] put down your load 
 How have you borne the storm, the cold 1 
 
 What horrors did I not forbode — 
 
 That beast is worth his weight in gold." 
 
 Thus spoke the joyful wife ; — then ran 
 In grateful streams to hide her head ; 
 
 Dapple was housed, the weary man 
 
 With joy glanced o'er the children's bed. 
 
 " What, all asleep ! — so best," he cried: 
 " O what a night I've travell'd through ! 
 
 Unseen, unheard, I might have died ; 
 But Heaven has brought me safe to you. 
 
 " Dear partner of my nights and days. 
 That smile becomes thee ! — let us then 
 
 Learn, though mishap may cross our ways, 
 It is not ours to reckon when." 
 
143 
 
 THE FAKENHAM GHOST. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 The lawns were dry in Euston Park ; 
 
 (Here truth* inspires my tale,) 
 The lonely footpath, still and dark. 
 
 Led over hill and dale. 
 
 Benighted was an ancient dame, 
 And fearful haste she made, 
 
 To gain the vale of Fakenham, 
 And hail its willow shade. 
 
 Her footsteps knew no idle stops, 
 
 But follow'd faster still-; 
 And echo'd to the darksome copse 
 
 That whisper'd on the hill ; 
 
 * This ballad is founded on a fact. The circumstance 
 uccurred perhaps long before I was born ; but is still 
 related by my mother, and some of the oldest inhabit- 
 ants of that part of the country. R. B. 
 
 ncc 
 
THE FAKE^'HA-M GHOST. 143 
 
 TV. 
 
 Where clam'rous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd, 
 
 Bespoke a peopled shade ; 
 And many a wing the foliage brush'd 
 
 And hov'ring circuits made. 
 
 The dappled herd of grazing deer 
 That sought the shades by day, 
 
 Now started from her path in fear 
 And gave the stranger way. 
 
 Darker it grew ; and darker fears 
 Came o'er her troubled mind ; 
 
 When now, a short quick step she hears 
 Come patting close behind. 
 
 f^he turn'd, it stopp'd ; — nought could she see 
 
 Upon the gloomy plain ! 
 But, as she strove the sprite to flee, 
 
 She heard the same asrain. 
 
 Xow terror seized her quaking frame ; 
 
 For, where the path was bare. 
 The trotting ghost kept on the same I 
 
 ^'he mutter'd many a pray'r. 
 
144 KURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 Yet once again, amidst her fright, 
 She tried what sight could do ; 
 
 When through the cheating glooms of night 
 A monster stood in view. 
 
 Regardless of whate'er she felt, 
 
 It foUow'd down the plain ! 
 She own'd her sins, and down she knelt, 
 
 And said her pray'rs again. 
 
 Then on she sped ; and hope grew strong 
 The white park-gate in view ; 
 
 Which pushing hard so long it swung 
 That ghost and all pass'd through. 
 
 Loud fell the gate against the post, 
 Her heart-strings like to crack : 
 
 For, much she fear'd the grisly ghost 
 Would leap upon her back. 
 
 Still on, pit pat, the goblin went. 
 As it had done before : — 
 
 Her strength and resolution spent. 
 She fainted at the door. 
 
THE FAKEXHAM GHOST. 145 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Out came her husband much surprised : 
 
 Out came her daughter dear: 
 Good-natured souls ! all unadvised 
 
 Of what they had to fear. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The candle's gleam pierced through the night, 
 Some short space o'er the green ; 
 
 And there the little trotting sprite 
 Distinctly might be seen. 
 
 An ass's foal had lost its dam 
 Within the spacious park ; 
 
 And simple as the playful lamb, 
 Had follow'd in the dark. 
 
 IVo goblin he ; no imp of sin : 
 No crimes had ever known ; 
 
 They took the shaggy stranger in 
 And rear'd him as their own. 
 
 XVIIT. 
 
 His little hoofs would rattle round 
 
 Upon the cottage floor : 
 The matron learn'd to love the sound 
 
 That frighten'd her before. 
 10 
 
146 KtlRAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 A flivorite the ghost became 
 And 'twas his fate to thrive : 
 
 And long he Uved and spread his fame, 
 And kept the joke aUve. 
 
 For many a laugh went through the vale, 
 
 And some conviction too : — 
 Each thought some other goblin tale . 
 
 Perhaps was just as true. 
 
147 
 
 THE FRENCH MARINER. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 « 
 
 Ax old French mariner am I, 
 
 Whom time hath render'd poor an4 gray 
 Hear, conquering Britons, ere I die, 
 
 What anguish prompts me thus to say. 
 
 I've rode o'er many a dreadful wave, 
 I've seen the reeking blood descend : 
 
 I've heard the last groans of the brave ; — 
 The shipmate dear, the steady friend. 
 
 'Twas when De Grasse the battle join'd, 
 And struck, on April's fatal morn ; 
 
 I left three smiling boys behind, 
 And saw my country's hly torn. 
 
148 KURAL TALES 
 
 There, as I braved the storms of fate, 
 Dead in my arms my brother fell ; 
 
 Here sits forlorn his widovv'd mate, 
 Who weeps whene'er the tale I tell. 
 
 Thy reign, sweet peace, was o'er too soon 
 War piecemeal robs me of my joy : 
 
 For, on the blood-stain'd first of June, 
 Death took my eldest favorite boy. 
 
 The other two enraged arose, 
 
 " Our country claims our lives," they said 
 With them I lost my soul's repose ; 
 
 That fatal hour my last hope fled. 
 
 With Brueys the proud Nile they sought, 
 Where one in ling'ring wounds expir'd ; 
 
 While yet the other bravely fought. 
 The Orient's magazine was fired. 
 
 Till. 
 
 And must I mourn my country's shame? 
 
 And envious curse the conquering foe ] 
 No more I feel that thirst of fame ; — 
 
 All I can feel is private woe. 
 
THE FRENCH MARINER, 149 
 
 IX. 
 
 E'en all the joy that vict'ry brings, 
 
 (Her bellowing guns, and flaming pride,) 
 
 Cold, momentary comfort flings 
 
 Around where weeping friends reside ; 
 
 Whose blighted bud no sun shall cheer, 
 Whose lamp of life no longer shine ; 
 
 Some parent, brother, child, most dear, 
 Who ventured and who died like mine. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Proud-crested fiend, the world's worst foe, 
 Ambition, can'st thou boast one deed, 
 
 Whence no unsightly horrors flow, 
 Nor private peace is seen to bleed ] 
 
 Ah ! why do these old eyes remain 
 To see succeeding mornings rise! 
 
 My wife is dead, my children slain, 
 And poverty is all my prize. 
 
 Yet shall not poor unfeebled age 
 
 Breathe forth revenge ; — but kneel and pray, 
 O God, who seest the battle's rage. 
 
 Take from men's hearts that rage away. 
 
RURAL TALES, ET'\ 150 
 
 From the vindictive tongue of strife, 
 Bid hatred and false glory flee ; 
 
 That babes may meet advancing life, 
 Nor feel the woes that light on me. 
 
151 
 
 DOLL Y. 
 
 Ingenuous trust, and confidence of love.' 
 
 The bat began with giddy wing 
 His circuit round the shed, the tree, 
 
 And clouds of dancing gnats to sing 
 A summer-night's serenity. 
 
 II. 
 
 Darkness crept slowly o'er the east, 
 Upon the barn-roof watch'd the cat ; 
 
 Sweet breathed the ruminating beast. 
 At rest where Dolly musing sat. 
 
 A simple maid, who could employ 
 The silent lapse of evening mild, 
 
 And loved its solitary joy : 
 
 For Dolly was reflection's child. 
 
152 KUKAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 He who hail pledged his word to he 
 Her life's dear guardian, far away, 
 
 The flow'r of yeoman cavalry, 
 
 Bestrode a steed with trappings gay. 
 
 And thus from mem'ry's treasured sweets, 
 And thus from love's pure fount she drew 
 
 That peace, which busy care defeats. 
 And bids our pleasures bloom anew. 
 
 Six weeks of absence have I borne 
 Since Henry took his fond farewell : 
 
 The charms of that delightful morn 
 My tongue could thus for ever tell. 
 
 He at my window whistling loud. 
 Aroused my lightsome heart to go : 
 
 Day, conqu'ring, climb'd from cloud to cloud 
 The fields all wore a purple glow. 
 
 We stroU'd the bordering flow'rs among: 
 One hand the bridle held behind; 
 
 The other round my waist was flung ; 
 Sure never youth spoke half so kind ! 
 
153 
 
 IX. 
 
 The rising lark I could but hear; 
 
 And jocund seem'd the song to be : 
 But sweeter sounded in my ear, 
 
 " ^yill Dolly still be true to me !" 
 
 From the rude dock my skirt had swept 
 A fringe of clinging burs so green ; 
 
 Like them our hearts still closer crept, 
 And hook'd a thousand holds unseen. 
 
 High o'er the road each branching bough 
 Its globes of silent dew had shed ; 
 
 And on the j)i]re-wash'd sand below 
 'J'he dimpling drops around had spread. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The sweet-brier oped its pink-eyed rose 
 And gave its fragrance to the gale; 
 
 'J'hough modest flow'rs may sweets disclose 
 More sweet was Henry's earnest tale. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Ho seem'd, methought, on that dear morn, 
 To pour out all his heart to me ; 
 
 As if, the separation borne, 
 
 The coming hours would joyless be. 
 
154 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 A bank rose high beside the way, 
 And full against the morning sun ; 
 
 Of heav'nly blue the violets gay 
 His hand invited one by one. 
 
 The posy with a smile he gave ; 
 
 I saw his meaning in his eyes ; 
 The wither'd treasure still I have ; 
 
 My bosom holds the fragrant prize. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 With his last kiss he would have vow'd, 
 But blessings crowding forced their way 
 
 Then mounted he his courser proud ; 
 His time was gone, he could not stay. 
 
 Then first I felt the parting pang ; — 
 Sure the worst pang the lover feels ! 
 
 His horse unruly from me sprang. 
 The pebbles flew beneath his heels. 
 
 Then down the road his vigour tried, 
 His rider gazing, gazing still; 
 
 " My dearest, I'll be true," he cried : 
 And if he lives, I'm sure he will. 
 
155 
 
 LINES, 
 
 Occasioned by a Visit to Whittlebury Forest, North- 
 amptonshire, in August, 1800. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MY CHILDREN. 
 
 • 
 
 I. 
 
 Gexius of the forest shades, 
 
 Lend thy pow'r, and lend thine ear ! 
 A stranger trod thy lonely glades, 
 
 Amidst thy dark and bounding deer : 
 Inquiring childhood claims the verse, 
 
 O let them not inquire in vain ; 
 Be with me vfhile I thus rehearse 
 
 The glories of thy sylvan reign. 
 
 Thy dells by wintry currents worn, 
 Secluded haunts, how dear to me ! 
 
 From all but nature's converse borne, 
 No ear to hear, no eye to see. 
 
156 HrKAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 Their honour'd leaves the green oaks rear'd, 
 And crown'd the uphind's graceful swell ; 
 
 While answering through the vale was heard 
 Each distant heii'er's tinkling bell. 
 
 III. 
 Hail, greenwood shades, that stretching far, 
 
 Defy e'en summer's noontide pow'r, 
 When iVugust in his burning car 
 
 Withholds the clouds, withholds the sliow'r. 
 The deep-toned low from either hill, 
 
 Down hazel aisles and arches green, 
 ('I'he herd's rude tracks from rill to rill,) 
 
 Roar'd echoing through the solemn scene. 
 
 From my cliarm'd heart the numbers sprung, 
 
 Though birds had ceased the choral lay: 
 I pour'd wild raptures from my tongue, 
 
 And gave delicious tears their way. 
 Then, darker shadows seeking still. 
 
 Where human foot had seldom stray'd, 
 I read aloud to every hill 
 
 ISweet Emma's love, " the nut-brown maid." 
 
 Shaking his matted mane on high, 
 The gazing colt would raise his head, 
 
 Or tim'rous doe would rushing fly, 
 And leave to me her grassy bed : 
 
■WIIITTLEBURY FOREST. 157 
 
 Whore, as the azure sky appear'd 
 
 Through bow'rs of ever varying form, 
 
 'Midst the deep gloom methought I heard 
 The daring progress of the storm. 
 
 How would each sweeping pond'rous bough 
 
 Resist, when straight the whirlwind cleaves, 
 Dashing in strength'ning eddies through 
 
 A roaring wilderness of leaves ! 
 How would the prone descending show'r 
 
 From the green canopy rebound ! 
 How would the lowland torrents pour ! 
 
 How deep the pealing thunder sound ! 
 
 But peace was there: no light'nings blazed : — 
 
 No clouds obscured the face of heav'n, 
 Down each green op'ning while I gazed, 
 
 My thoughts to home, and you, were given. 
 O, tender minds ! in life's gay morn. 
 
 Some clouds must dim your coming day ; 
 Yet bootless, pride and fasehood scorn, 
 
 And peace like this shall cheer your way. 
 
 Now, at the dark wood's stately side, 
 Well pleased I met the sun again ; 
 
 Flere fleeting fancy travell'd wide ! 
 My seat was destined to the main : 
 
158 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 For many an oak lay stretch'd at length, 
 Whose trunks (with bark no longer sheath'd) 
 
 Had reach'd their full meridian strength 
 Before your father's father breathed ! 
 
 Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave, 
 
 And many a dreadful storm defy ; 
 Then; groaning o'er the adverse wave, 
 
 Bring home the flag of victory. 
 Go, then, proud oaks : we meet no more I 
 
 Go, grace the scenes to me denied, 
 The white chffs round my native shore 
 
 And the loud ocean's swelling tide. 
 
 " Genius of the forest shades," 
 
 Sweet from the heights of thy domain. 
 When the gray ev'ning shadow fades, 
 
 To view the country's golden grain. 
 To view the gleaming village spire, 
 
 'Midst distant groves unknown to me : 
 Groves that grown bright in borrow'd fire 
 
 Bow o'er the peopled vales to thee. 
 
 Where was thy elfin train, that play 
 
 Round Wake's huge oak, their favorite tree, 
 
 Dancing the twilight hours away 1 
 Why were they not reveal'd to me 1 
 
WHITTLEBUKY FOREST. 159 
 
 Yet, smiling fairies left behind, 
 Affection brought you all to view ; 
 
 To love and tenderness resign'd, 
 
 My heart heaved many a sigh for you. 
 
 When morning still unclouded rose, 
 
 Refresh'd vpith sleep and joyous dreams, 
 Where fruitful fields with woodlands close, 
 
 I traced the births of various streams. 
 From beds of clay, here creeping rills, 
 
 Unseen to parent Ouse, would steal ; 
 Or, gushing from the northward hills, 
 
 Would glitter through Tove's winding dale. 
 
 Rut ah ! ye cooling spring.s, farewell ! 
 
 Herds, I no more your freedom share ; 
 IJut long my grateful tongue shall tell 
 
 What brought your gazing stranger there. 
 •' Genius of the forest shades," 
 
 Lend thy power, and lend thine ear ; 
 Let dreams still lengthen thy long glades, 
 
 And bring thy peace and silence here. 
 
160 
 
 SONG 
 
 FOR A HIGHLAND DROVER, RETURNING FROM 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Now fare thee well, England; no further I'll 
 
 roam ; 
 But follow my shadow that points the way home : 
 Your gay southern shores shall not tempt me to 
 
 stay; 
 For my Maggy's at home, and my children at, 
 
 play ! 
 'Tis this makes my bonnet sit light on my brow, 
 Gives my sinews their strength, and my bosom 
 
 its glow. 
 
 Farewell, mountaineers ! my companions, adieu ! 
 Soon, many long miles when I'm sever'd from you, 
 I shall miss your white horns on the brink of the 
 
 burn. 
 And o'er the rough heaths, where you'll never 
 
 return ■ 
 
-HE HIUHLAXD DKOVKIl. 161 
 
 But in brave English pastures you cannot com- 
 plain, 
 
 While your drover speeds back to his Maggy 
 again. 
 
 O Tweed ! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green 
 
 vales, 
 More than life, more than love, my tired spirit 
 
 inhales ; 
 There Scotland, ray darling, lies full in my view, 
 With her bare-footed lasses and mountains so 
 
 blue: 
 To the mountains away, my heart bound Uke the 
 
 hind, 
 For home is so sweet, and my Maggy so kind. 
 
 IT. 
 
 As day after day I still follow my course. 
 And in fancy trace back every stream to its source, 
 Hope cheers me up hills, where the road lies before, 
 O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of wild 
 
 moor; 
 The keen polar star nightly rising to view ; 
 But Maggy's my star, just as steady and true. 
 
 V. 
 
 O ghost of my fathers ! heroes, look down : 
 Fix my wandering thoughts on your deeds of 
 renown, 
 
 11 
 
162 KURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 For the glory of Scotland reigns warm in my 
 
 breast, 
 And fortitude grows both from toil and from rest : 
 May your deeds and your worth be for ever in 
 
 view, 
 And may Maggy bear sons not unworthy of you. 
 
 Love, why do you urge me, so weary and poor ? 
 
 I cannot step faster, I cannot do more : 
 
 I've pass'd silver Tweed ; e'en the Tay flows be- 
 hind : 
 
 Yet fatigue I'll disdain ; — my reward I shall find ; 
 
 Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my 
 prize ; 
 
 And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue 
 eyes. 
 
 She'll watch to the southward ; — perhaps she will 
 
 sigh. 
 That the way is so long, and the mountain so 
 
 high ; 
 Perhaps some huge rock in the dusk she may see, 
 And will say in her fondness, " That surely is he !" 
 Good wife, you're deceived ; I'm still far from my 
 
 home; 
 Go, sleep, my dear Maggy, — to-morrow I'll come. 
 
163 
 
 A WORD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES. 
 
 When tender rose-trees first receive, 
 On half-expanded leaves, the shower, 
 
 Hope's gayest pictures we believe, 
 
 And anxious watch each comin? flower. 
 
 Then, if beneath the genial sun 
 
 That spreads abroad the full-blown May, 
 Two infant stems the rest out-run. 
 
 Their buds the first to meet the day ; 
 
 With joy their op'ning tints we view, 
 While morning's precious moments fly ; 
 
 My pretty maids, 'tis thus with you. 
 The fond admiring gazer, I. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Preserve, sweet buds, where'er you be. 
 The richest gem that decks a wife — 
 
 The charm of female modesty ; 
 And let sweet music give it life. 
 
164 RURAL TALES, ETC. 
 
 Still may tne favouring muse be found ; 
 
 Still circumspect the paths ye tread : 
 Plant moral truths in fancy's ground, 
 
 And meet old age without a dread. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet, ere that comes, while yet ye quaff 
 The cup of health without a pain, 
 
 I'll shake my gray hairs when you laugh, 
 And, when you sing, be young again.* 
 
 * Both the young ladies had addressed to me a few 
 complimentary lines (and I am sorry that those of the 
 elder sister were never in my possession) ; in return 
 for which I sent the above. It was received on the 
 day on which the younger completed her ninth year. 
 Surely it cannot be ascribed to vanity, if, in gratitude 
 to a most amiable family, I here preserve verbatim an 
 effort of a child nine years old. I have the more plea- 
 sure in doing it, because I know them to be her own. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 " Accept, dear bard, the Muse's genuine thought ; 
 And take not ill the tribute of my heart: 
 For thee the laureate wreath of praise I'll bind. 
 None that have read thy commendable mind, 
 Can let it pass unnoticed — nor can I — 
 F«r by thy lays I know thy sympathy." F. P. 
 
165 
 
 On hearing of the Translation of part of the Farmer's 
 Boy into Latin, by the Rev. Mr. C. 
 
 Hey, Giles! in what new garb art dressMI 
 
 For lads like you, methinks, a bold one ; 
 I'm glad to see thee so caress'd ; 
 
 But, hark ye ! — don't despise your old one. 
 Thou'rt not the first, by many a boy, 
 
 Who've found abroad good friends to own 'em ; 
 Then in such coats have shown their joy, 
 
 E'en their own fathers have not known 'em. 
 
166 
 
 NANCY. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 4 
 
 I. 
 
 ifou ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume 
 That you cherish a secret aflection for me ] 
 
 When we see the flow'rs bud, don't we look for 
 the bloom 1 
 Then, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 When we young men with pastimes the twilight 
 beguile, 
 I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with 
 
 joy: 
 And observe, that whatever occasions the smile, 
 You give me a glance, but provokingly coy. 
 
 Last month, when wild strawberries, pluck'd in 
 the grove, 
 Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had 
 strung, 
 
NANCY. 167 
 
 You gave me the choicest ; I hoped 'twas for love ; 
 And I told you my hopes while the nightingale 
 sung. 
 
 IT. 
 
 Remember the viper ; — 'twas close at your feet, 
 How you started, and threw yourself into my 
 arms ; 
 
 Not a strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet 
 As the lips which I kiss'd to subdue your alarms. 
 
 As I puird down the clusters of nuts for my fair. 
 What a blow I received from a strong bending 
 bough ! 
 
 Though Lucy and other gay lasses were there, 
 Not one of them show'd such compassion as you. 
 
 And was it compassion ? — by heav'n 'twas more ! 
 
 A tell-tale betrays you; — that blush on your 
 
 cheek : 
 
 Then come, dearest maid, all your trifling give o'er. 
 
 And whisper what candour will teach you to 
 
 speak. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Can you stain my fair honour with one broken vowl 
 Can you say that I've ever occasion'd a pain T 
 
 On truth's honest base let your tenderness grow ; 
 I swear to be faithful again and again. 
 
168 
 
 ROSY HANNAH. 
 
 A SPRING, o'erhung with many a flower, 
 
 The gray sand dancing in its bed, 
 Embank'd beneath a hawthorn bower. 
 
 Sent forth its waters near my head : 
 A rosy lass approach'd my view ; 
 
 I caught her blue eye's modest beam : 
 The stranger nodded " How d'ye do !" 
 
 And leap'd across the infant stream. 
 
 II. 
 
 The water heedless pass'd away : 
 
 With me her glowing image stay'd : 
 I strove, from that auspicious day, 
 
 To meet and bless tbe lovely maid. 
 I met her where beneath our feet 
 
 Through downy moss the wild thyme grew ; 
 Nor moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet, 
 
 Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue. 
 
 I met her where the dark woods wave, 
 And shaded verdure skirts the plain ; 
 
ROSY HANNAH. 169 
 
 And when the pale moon rising gave 
 
 New glories to her cloudy train. 
 From her sweet cot upon the moor, 
 
 Our plighted vows to heaven are flown: 
 Truth made me welcome at her door, 
 
 And rosy Hannah is my own. 
 
170 
 
 THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER. 
 
 Rover, awake ! the gray cock crows ! 
 
 Come, shake your coat and go with me- 
 High in the east the green hill glows ; 
 
 And glory crowns our shelt'ring tree. 
 The sheep expect us at the fold : 
 
 My faithful dog, let's haste away, 
 And in his earliest beams behold. 
 
 And hail the source of cheerful day. 
 
 Half his broad orb o'erlooks the hill ; 
 
 And darting down the valley flies, 
 At every casement welcome still, 
 
 The golden summons of the skies. 
 Go, fetch my staff; and o'er the dews 
 
 Let echo waft thy gladsome voice ; 
 Shall we a cheerful note refuse 
 
 When rising morn proclaims, « Rejoice !" 
 
 III. 
 Now then we'll start ; and thua I'll sling 
 Our store, a trivial load to bear : 
 
THE SHEPHERD AXD HIS DOG ROVER. 171 
 
 Yet, ere night comes, should hunger sting, 
 rii not encroach on Rover's share. 
 
 The fresh breeze bears its sweets along ; 
 The lark but chicles us vphile we stay : 
 
 Soon shall the vale repeat my song — 
 Go brush before, — away, away ! 
 
172 
 
 HUNTING SONG. 
 
 Yk darksome woods, where Echo dwells, 
 Where every bud with freedom swells 
 
 To meet the glorious day : 
 The morning breaks ; again rejoice ; 
 And with old Ringwood's well-known voice 
 
 Bid tuneful Echo play. 
 
 We come, ye groves, — ye hills, we come : 
 The vagrant fox shall hear his doom. 
 
 And dread our jovial train. 
 The shrill horn sounds, the courser flies, 
 While every sportsman joyful cries, 
 
 " There's Ringwood's voice again." 
 
 Ye meadows, hail the coming throng, — 
 Ye peaceful streams, that wind along, 
 
 Repeat the hark- away : 
 Far o'er the downs, ye gales that sweep, 
 The daring oak that crowns the steep, 
 
 The roaring peal convey. 
 
HUJfTING SONG. 173 
 
 The chiming notes of cheerful hounds 
 Hark ! how the hollow dale resounds ; 
 
 The sunny hills how gay. 
 But where's the note, brave dog, like thine 1 
 Then urge the steed, the chorus join 
 
 'Tis Ringwood leads the way. 
 
174 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 — • — 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 I. 
 
 Thy favorite bird is soaring still : 
 
 My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale ; 
 The stream's let loose, and from the mill 
 All silent comes the balmy gale ; 
 Yet, so lightly on its way. 
 Seems to whisper " Holiday." 
 
 The pathway flowers that Ijending meet, 
 And give the meads their yellow hue, 
 The May-bush and the meadow sweet 
 Reserve their fragrance all for you. 
 Why, then, Lucy, why delay ! 
 Let us share the Holiday. 
 
 Since there thy smiles, my charming maid, 
 Are with unfeigned rapture seen. 
 
175 
 
 To beauty be the homage paid ; 
 
 Come, claim the triumph of the green. 
 Here's my hand, come, come away; 
 Share the merry HoUday. 
 
 A promise, too, my Lucy made, 
 
 (And shall my heart its claim resign?) 
 That ere May flowers again should fade. 
 Her heart and hand should both be mine. 
 Hark ye, Lucy, this is May ; 
 Love should crown our Holiday. 
 
176 
 
 WINTER SONG. 
 
 Dear boy, throw that icicle down, 
 
 And sweep this deep snow from the door ; 
 Old Winter comes on with a frown ; 
 
 A terrible frown for the poor. 
 In a season so rude and forlorn, 
 
 How can age, how can infancy bear 
 The silent neglect and the scorn 
 
 Of those who have plenty to spare 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Fresh broach'd is my cask of old ale. 
 
 Well-timed now the frost is set in ; 
 Here's Job come to tell us a tale, 
 
 We'll make him at home to pin. 
 While my wife and I bask o'er the fire, 
 
 The roll of the seasons will prove 
 That time may diminish desire, 
 
 But cannot extinguish true love. 
 
 O the pleasures of neighbourly chat ! 
 If you can but keep scandal away. 
 
WINTER SOXff. 177 
 
 To learn what the world has been at, 
 
 And what the great orators say ; 
 Though the wind through the crevices sing, 
 
 And hail down the chimney rebound, 
 I'm happier than many a king. 
 
 While the bellows blows bass to the sound. 
 
 Abundance was never my lot : 
 
 But out of the trifle that's given, 
 That no curse may alight on my cot, 
 
 I'll distribute the bounty of Heav'n. 
 The fool and the slave gather wealth : 
 
 But if I add nought to my store, 
 Yet while I keep Conscience in health, 
 
 I've a mine that will never grow poor. 
 
 12 
 
WILT) FLOWERS 
 
 (179) 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 My Dear Boy, 
 
 In thus addressing myself to you, and in express- 
 ing my regard for your person, my anxiety for your 
 health, and my devotion to your welfare, I enjoy an 
 advantage over those dedicators who indulge in adu- 
 lation ; — I shall at least be believed. 
 
 Should you arrive at that period when reason shall 
 be mature, and affection or curiosity induce you to 
 look back on your father's poetical progress through 
 life, you may conclude that he had many to boast as 
 friends, whose names, in a dedication, would have 
 honoured both him and his children : but you must 
 also reflect, that to particularize such friends, was a 
 point of peculiar delicacy. The earliest patron of my 
 unprotected strains has the warm thanks which are 
 his due, for the introduction of blessings, which have 
 been diffused through our whole family ; and nothing 
 will ever change this sentiment. But amidst a gene- 
 ral feeling of gratitude, which those who know me 
 never dispute, I feel for you, Charles, what none but 
 parents can conceive ; and on your account, my dear 
 boy, there can be no harm in telling the world that I 
 hope these " Wild Flowers" will be productive of 
 
 (181) 
 
182 DEDICATION. 
 
 sweets of the worldly kind — for your unfortunate 
 lameness (should it never be removed) may preclude 
 you from the means of procuring comforts and advan- 
 tages which might have otherwise fallen to your share. 
 What a lasting, what an unspeakable satisfaction 
 would it be to know that the " Ballads," the " Plough- 
 man Stories," and the " Broken Crutch" of your fa- 
 ther, would eventually contribute to lighten your steps 
 to manhood, and make your own crutch through life, 
 rather a memorial of affection than an object of sor- 
 row. 
 
 With a parent's feelings, and a parent's cares, 
 I am, Charles, yours,— 
 
 R. B. 
 
183 
 
 ABNER AND THE WIDOW JONES. 
 
 A FAMILIAR BALLAD. 
 
 " Well ! Fm determined ; that's enough : — 
 Gee, Bayard ! move your poor old bones ! 
 
 I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough, 
 To go and court the Widow Jones. 
 
 " Our master talks of stable-room, 
 And younger horses on his grounds ; 
 
 'Tis easy to foresee thy doom, — 
 
 Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds. 
 
 " But, could I win the widow's hand, 
 I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee ; 
 
 For thou upon the best of land 
 
 Should'st feed, and live and die with me. 
 
184 WILD FLOWEKS. 
 
 " And must the pole-axe lay thee low ? 
 
 And will they pick thy poor old bones ? 
 No — hang me, if it shall be so, — 
 
 If I can win the Widow Jones." 
 
 Twirl went his stick ; his curly pate 
 A bran new hat uplifted bore : 
 
 And Abner, as he leap'd the gate, 
 Had never look'd so gay before. 
 
 And every spark of love revived 
 That had perplex'd him long ago, 
 
 When busy folks and fools contrived 
 To make his Mary answer — No, 
 
 But whether, freed from recent vows. 
 Her heart had back to Abner flown, 
 
 And mark'd him for a second spouse, 
 In truth, is not exactly known. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Howbeit, as he came in sight, 
 
 She turn'd her from the garden stile, 
 
 And downward look'd with pure delight, 
 With half a sigh and half a smile. 
 
ABNEK A.\D THE WIDOW JO^ES. ]85 
 
 IX. 
 
 She heard his sounding step behind — 
 The blush of joy crept up her cheek, 
 
 As cheerly floated on the wind, 
 
 " Hoi ! Mary Jones — what, won't you speak?" 
 
 X. 
 
 Then, with a look that ne'er deceives. 
 She turn'd, and found her courage fled ; 
 
 And scolding sparrows from the eaves 
 Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head. 
 
 Down Abncr sat, with glowing heart. 
 Resolved, whatever might betide, 
 
 To speak his mind — no other art 
 He ever knew, or ever tried. 
 
 And gently twitching Mary's hand — 
 The bench had ample room for two, — 
 
 His first word made her understand 
 The ploughman's errand was to woo. 
 
 xm. 
 " My Mary — may I call thee soT 
 
 For many a happy day we've seen. 
 And if not mine, ay, years ago, 
 
 Whose was the fault? you might have been. 
 
18b WILD FLOWEKS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " All that's gone by : — but I've been musing, 
 jVnd vow'd, and hope to keep it true, 
 
 That she shall be my own heart's choosing 
 Whom I call wife. — Hey, what say you 1 
 
 " And as I drove my plough along, 
 
 And felt the strength that's in my arm. 
 
 Ten years, thought I, amidst my song, 
 I've been head man at Harewood farm. 
 
 " And, now, my own dear Mary's free, 
 Whom I have loved this many a day, 
 
 Who knows but she may think on me P 
 I'll go hear what she has to say. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Perhaps that little stock of land 
 
 She holds, but knows not how to till, 
 
 May suffer in the widow's hand. 
 And make poor Mary poorer still. 
 
 "That scrap of land, with one like her. 
 How we might live : and be so blest ! 
 
 And who should Mary Jones prefer 1 
 Why, surely, him who loves her best ! 
 
ABNER AXD THE WIDOW JONES. 187 
 
 " Therefore I come, to-night, sweet wench, 
 I would not idly thus intrude :" — 
 
 Mary look'd downward on the bench, 
 O'erpowered by love and gratitude ; 
 
 And lean d her head against the vine 
 With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss ; 
 
 Till Abner cried, "You must be mine, 
 You must," — and seal'd it with a kiss. 
 
 She talk'd of shame, and wiped her cheek, 
 But what had shame with them to do, 
 
 Who nothing meant but truth to speak, 
 And downright honour to pursue 1 
 
 His eloquence improved apace. 
 As manly pity fiU'd his mind ; — 
 
 " You know poor Bayard ; here's the case, 
 He's past his labour, old, and blind : 
 
 " If you and I should but agree 
 To settle here for good and all. 
 
 Could you give all your heart to me. 
 And grudge that poor old rogue a stall 1 
 
188 WILD rLOWERS. 
 
 «' I'll buy him — for the dogs shall never 
 Set tooth upon a friend so true ; 
 
 He'll not Uve long — but I for ever 
 Shall know I gave the beast his due. 
 
 xxy. 
 
 " 'Mongst all I've known of ploughs and carts, 
 And ever since I learn'd to drive, 
 
 He was not match'd in all these parts — 
 There was not such a horse alive ! 
 
 " Ready, as birds to meet the morn, 
 Were all his efforts at the plough ; 
 
 Then the mill-brook, with hay or corn, 
 Good creature ! how he'd spatter through ! 
 
 " He was a horse of mighty power. 
 
 Compact in frame, and strong of lirrfc ; 
 
 Went with a chirp from hour to hour: 
 Whip-cord ! 'twas never made for him. 
 
 '* I left him in the shafts behind, 
 His fellows all unhook'd and gone. 
 
 He neigh'd and deem'd the thing unkind, 
 Then, starting, drew the load along! 
 
ABNER AND THE WIDOW. JONES, 189 
 
 "But I may talk till pitch-dark night, 
 And then have something left to say ; 
 
 But, Mary, am I wrong or right 1 
 Or, do I throw my words away 1 
 
 « Leave me, or taKe nie and my horse ; 
 
 I've told thee truth, and all I know : 
 Truth s/tou/c? breed truth — that comes of course ; 
 
 If I sow wheat, why wheat will grow." — 
 
 " Yes, Abner, but thus soon to yield. 
 
 Neighbours would fleer, and look behind 'em ; 
 
 Though, with a husband in the field. 
 Perhaps, indeed, I should not mind 'em. 
 
 " I've known your generous nature well ; 
 
 My first denial cost me dear : 
 How this may end we cannot tell — 
 
 But, as for Bayard, bring him here." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 « Bless thee for that," the ploughman cried. 
 At once both starting from the seat. 
 
 He stood a guardian by her side, 
 
 But talk'd of home, — 'twas growing late. 
 
190 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Then, step for step within his arm, 
 She cheer'd him down the dewy way ; 
 
 And no two birds upon the farm 
 
 E'er parted with more joy than they. 
 
 XXXT. 
 
 What news at home ? — The smile he wore 
 One little sentence turn'd to sorrow ; 
 
 An order met him at the door — 
 
 " Take Bayard to the hounds to-morrow." 
 
 " Yes, yes, thought he — and heaved a sigh ; 
 
 Die when he will he's not your debtor : 
 I must obey, and he must die, — 
 
 That's if I can't contrive it better." 
 
 He left his Mary late at night. 
 And had succeeded in the main ; 
 
 No sooner peep'd the morning light 
 But he was on the road again ! 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " Suppose she should refuse her hand ! 
 
 Such thoughts will come, I know not why ; 
 Shall I, without a wife or land, 
 
 Want an old horse? then, wherefore buyl' 
 
ABNER AN'D THE WIDOW JONES. 191 
 
 From bush to bush, from stile to stile, 
 Perplex'd he trod the fallow ground, 
 
 And told his money all the while. 
 
 And weigh'd the matter round and round. 
 
 " I'll borrow — that s the best thought yet ; 
 
 Mary shall save the horse's life ; — 
 Kind-hearted wench ! what, run in debt 
 
 Before I know she'll be ray wife 1 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " These women won't speak plain and free : — 
 Well, well ! I'll keep my service still ; 
 
 She has not said she'd marry me, 
 But yet I dare to say she will. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " But while I take this shay-brain'd course, 
 
 And like a fool run to and fro, 
 Master, perhaps, may sell the horse ! 
 
 Sell him ! — this instant home I'll go." 
 
 The nightly rains had drench'd the grove, 
 He plunged right on with headlong pace ; 
 
 A man but half as much in love 
 Perhaps had found a cleaner place. 
 
192 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 The day rose fair ; with team afield, 
 He watch'd the farmer's cheerful brow ; 
 
 And in a lucky hour reveal'd 
 
 His secret at his post — the plough. 
 
 And there, without a whine, began : — 
 " Master, you'll give me your advice ; 
 
 I'm going to marry — if I can — 
 
 And want old Bayard ; what's his price 1 
 
 " For Mary Jones, last night, agreed. 
 Or near upon't, to be my wife : 
 
 The horse's value I don't heed — 
 I only want to save his Ufe." — 
 
 " Buy him, hey ! Abner ! trust me, I 
 Have not the thought of gain in view ; 
 
 Bayard's best days we've seen go by, — 
 He shall be cheap enough to you." 
 
 The wages paid, the horse brought out, 
 
 The hour of separation come ; 
 The farmer turn'd his chair about, 
 
 « Good fellow, take him — take him home. 
 
ABiVER AND THE WIDOW JOXES. lUS 
 
 " You're welcome, Abner, to the beast, 
 For you've a faithful servant been ; 
 
 They'll thrive, I doubt not in the least, 
 Who know what work and service mean. 
 
 The maids at parting, one and all. 
 
 From different windows, different tones, 
 
 Bade him farewell with many a bawl. 
 And sent their love to Mary Jones. 
 
 He waved his hat, and turn'd away. 
 When loud the cry of children rose ; 
 
 *' Abner, good bye !" — they stopp'd their play- 
 " There goes poor Bayard ! there he goes !' 
 
 Half choked with joy, with love, and pride, . 
 
 He now with dainty clover fed him ; 
 Now took a short triumphant ride, 
 
 And then again got down and led him. 
 
 And hobbling onward up the hill, 
 The widow's house was full in sight, 
 
 He pulled the bridle harder still, 
 
 " Come on, we sha'nt be there to-night.' 
 13 
 
194 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 She met them with a smile so sweet, 
 The stable-door was open thrown : 
 
 The blind horse lifted high his feet, 
 And loudly snorting, laid him down. 
 
 LV. 
 
 O Victory ! from that stock of laurels 
 
 You keep so snug for camps and thrones. 
 
 Spare us one twig from all their quarrels, 
 For Abner and the Widow Jones ! 
 
195 
 
 MY OLD OAK TABLE. 
 
 Frte]!td of ray peaceful days ! substantial friend, 
 Whom wealth can never change, nor interest 
 
 bend, 
 I love thee like a child. Thou wert to me 
 The dumb companion of my misery, 
 And oftener of my joys ; — then as I spoke, 
 I shared thy sympathy, Old Heart of Oak ! 
 For surely, when my labour ceased at night. 
 With trembling, feverish hand, and aching sight, 
 The draught that cheer'd me and subdued my 
 
 care, 
 On thy broad shoulders thou wert proud to Ijear. 
 O'er thee, with expectation's fire elate, 
 I've sat and ponder'd on my future fate : 
 On thee, with winter muffins for thy store, 
 I've lean'd, and quite forgot that I was poor. 
 
 Where dropp'd the acorn that gave birth to 
 thee 1 
 Canst thou trace back thy line of ancestry l 
 We're match'd, old friend, and let us not repine, 
 Darkness o'erhangs thy origin and mine- 
 
rj6 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Both may be truly honourable — yet, 
 We'll date our honours from the day we met ; 
 When, of my worldly wealth the parent stock, 
 Kight welcome up the Thames from Woolwich 
 
 Dock 
 Thou cam'st — when hopes ran high, and love was 
 
 young : 
 IJut soon our olive branches round thee sprung; 
 ?^oon came the days that tried a faithful wife. 
 The noise of children, and the cares of life. 
 Then, midst the threat'nings of a wintry sky, 
 That cough which bhghts the bud of infancy, 
 The dread of parents — Rest's inveterate foe — 
 Came like a plague, and turn'd my songs to woe. 
 
 Rest ! without thee, what strength can long 
 survive 1 
 What spirit keep the flame of Hope alive 1 
 The midnight murmur of the cradle gave 
 Sou,nds of despair ; and chilly as the grave 
 We felt its undulating blast arise, 
 "Midst whisper'd sorrows and ten thousand sighs. 
 Expiring embers warn'd us each to sleep. 
 By turns to watch alone — by turns to weep — 
 13y turns to hear — and keep from starting wild — 
 i'he sad, faint wailings of a dying child. 
 But Death, obedient to Heaven's high command, 
 Withdrew his jav'Iin, and unclench'd his hand ; 
 The little sufferers triumph'd over pain. 
 Their mother smiled, and bade me hope again. 
 
MY OLD OAK TABLE. 191! • 
 
 Yet Care gain'd ground, Exertion triumph'd less, 
 
 Thick fell the gathering terrors of Distress ; 
 
 Anxiety, and Griefs without a name. 
 
 Had made their dreadful inroads on my frame ; 
 
 The creeping Dropsy, cold as cold could be, 
 
 Unnerved my arm, and bow'd my head to thee — ■ 
 
 Thou to thy trust, old friend, hast not been true ; 
 
 These eyes the bitterest tears they evpr knew 
 
 Ijet fall upon thee ; now all wiped away ; 
 
 But what from memory shall wipe out that day 1 
 
 The great, the wealthy of my native land. 
 
 To whom a guinea is a grain of sand-7- 
 
 I thought upon them, for my thoughts were free, 
 
 But all unknown were thfen my woes and me. 
 
 Still, Resignation was my dearest friend, 
 And Reason pointed to a glorious end : 
 With anxious sighs, a parent's hopes and pride, 
 I wish'd to live — I trust I could have died ! 
 But winter's clouds pursued their stormy way. 
 And March brought sunshine with the length'ning 
 
 day. 
 And bade my heart arise, which, morn and night, 
 Now throbb'd with irresistible delight. 
 Delightful 'twas to leave disease behind, 
 And feel the renovation of the mind ! 
 To lead abroad, upborne on Pleasure's wing. 
 Our children — 'midst the glories of the spring — 
 Our fellow-sufferers, our only wealth. 
 To gather daisies in the breeze of health. 
 
19S WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 'Tvvas then, too, when our prospects grew sr 
 fair. 
 And Sabbath bells announced the morning pray'r 
 Beneath that vast gigantic dome we bow'd, 
 That lifts its flaming cross above the cloud ; 
 Had gain'd the centre of the chequer'd floor ; 
 That instant, with reverberating roar 
 Burst forth the pealing organ — mute we stood ; 
 The strong sensation boiling through my blood, 
 Rose in a storm of joy, allied to pain, 
 I wept and worshipp'd God, and wept again ; 
 And felt, amidst the fervour of my praise. 
 The sweet assurances of better days. 
 
 In that gay season, honest friend of mine, 
 I marked the brilliant sun upon thee shine ; 
 Imagination took her flights so free, 
 Home was delicious with my book and thee. 
 The purchased nosegay, or brown ears of corn. 
 Were thy gay plumes upon a summer's morn. 
 Awakening memory, that disdains control. 
 They spoke the darling language of my soul : 
 They whisper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth, 
 And conjured back the sunshine of my youth. 
 Fancy presided at the joyful birth, 
 I pour'd the torrent of my feelings forth ; 
 ('onscious of truth in Nature's humble track, 
 And wrote " The Farmer's Boy" upon thy back ! 
 Enough, old friend : — thou'rt mine, and shall par- 
 take, 
 While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak, 
 
MY OLD OAE TABLE. 199 
 
 Whatever fortune deals me. — Part with thee ! 
 
 No, not till death shall set my spirit free ; 
 
 For know, should plenty crown my hfe's decline, 
 
 A most important duty may be thine : 
 
 Then, guard me from temptation's base control. 
 
 From apathy and Httleness of soul. 
 
 'J'he sight of thy old frame so rougfi, so rude, 
 
 Shall twitch the sleeve of nodding Gratitude ; 
 
 Shall teach me but to venerate the more 
 
 Honest Oak Tables and their guests — the poor : 
 
 Teach me unjust distinctions to deride, 
 
 And falsehoods gendered in the brain of Pride ; 
 
 Shall give to Fancy still the cheerful hour, 
 
 To Intellect, its freedom and its power ; 
 
 To Hospitality's enchanting ring 
 
 A charm, which nothing but thyself can bring. 
 
 The man who would not look with honest pride 
 
 On the tight bark that stemm'd the roaring tide, 
 
 And bore him, where he bow'd the trembling knee, 
 
 Home, through the mighty perils of the sea. 
 
 I love him not, — he ne'er shall be my guest ; 
 
 Nor sip my cup, nor witness how Pm blest ; 
 
 Nor lean, to bring my honest friend to shame, 
 
 A sacrilegious elbow on thy frame ; 
 
 But thou through life a monitor shalt prove, 
 
 Sacred to Truth, to Poetry, and Love! 
 
200 
 
 THE HORKEY. 
 
 A PROVINCIAL BALLAD. 
 
 What gossips prattled in the sun, 
 
 Who talk'd him fairly down, 
 Up, Memory ! tell — 'tis Suffolk fun, 
 
 And lingo of their own. 
 
 Ah ! Judie Twitchet! though thou'rt dead, 
 
 With thee the tale begins ; 
 For still seems thrumming in my head 
 
 The rattling of thy pins, 
 
 Thou Queen of knitters! for a ball 
 
 Of worsted was thy pride ; 
 With dangling stockings, great and small, 
 
 And world of clack beside ! 
 
 " We did so laugh— the moon shone bright- 
 More fun you never knew ; 
 
 'Twas Farmer Cheerum's Horkey night. 
 And I, and Grace, and Sue — 
 
THE HORKEY. 201 
 
 "But bring a stool, sit round about, 
 
 And boys, be quiet, pray ; 
 And let me tell my story out ; 
 
 'Twas sitch a merry day ! 
 
 " The butcher whistled at the door. 
 
 And brought a load of meat ; 
 Boys rubb'd their hands, and cried, ' There's more,' 
 
 Dogs wagg'd their tails to see't. 
 
 " On went the boilers till the hake* 
 
 Had much ado to bear 'em : 
 The magpie talk'd for talking sake. 
 
 Birds sung — but who could hear 'em 1 
 
 " Crack went the jack ; the cats were scared, 
 
 We had not time to heed 'em ; 
 The owd hins cackled in the yard, 
 
 For we forgot to feed 'em ! 
 
 " Yet 'twas not I, as I may say, 
 
 Because as how, d'ye see, 
 I only help'd there for the day ; 
 
 They couldn't lay't to me. 
 
 -' Now Mrs. Cheerum's best lace cap 
 
 Was mounted on her head ; 
 Guests at the door began to rap. 
 
 And now the cloth was spread. 
 
 * A gUdini;; pot-hook. 
 
20ii WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 " Then clatter went the earthen plates — 
 
 ' Mind, Judie,' was the cry ; 
 I could have cop't* them at their pates ; 
 
 ' Trenchers for me,' said I, 
 
 " ' That look so clean upon the ledge, 
 
 All proof against a fall ; 
 They never turn a sharp knife's edge : 
 
 But fashion rules us all.' 
 
 ** Home came the joy via Horkey load, 
 
 Last of the whole year's crop ; 
 And Grace amongst the green boughs rode, 
 
 Right plump upon the top. 
 
 " This way and that the wagon reel'd. 
 
 And never queen rode higher ; 
 Her cheeks were colour'd in the fields, 
 
 And ours before the fire. 
 
 " The laughing harvest-folks, and John, 
 
 Came in and look'd askew ; 
 'Twas my red face that set them on, 
 
 And then they leer'd at Sue. 
 
 " And Farmer Cheerum went, good man, 
 And broach'd the Horkey beer ; 
 
 And sitch a mortj^ of folks began 
 To eat up our good cheer ! 
 
 * Thrown. t Such a number. 
 
THE HORKEY. 203 
 
 " Says he, ' Thank God for what's before us ; 
 
 That thus we meet agen ;' 
 The minghng voices, Hkc a chorus, 
 
 Join'd cheerfully, ' Amen.' 
 
 " Welcome and plenty, there they found 'em : 
 
 The ribs of beef grew light ; 
 And puddings — till the boys got round 'em, 
 
 And then they vanish'd quite. 
 
 " Now all the guests, with Farmer Crouder, 
 
 Began to prate of corn ; 
 And we found out they talk'd the louder. 
 
 The oftener pass'd the horn. 
 
 " Out came the nuts ; we set a cracking ; 
 
 The ale came round our way ; 
 By gom, we women fell a clacking 
 
 As loud agam as they. 
 
 " John sung ' Old Benbow' loud and strong, 
 
 And I, ' The Constant Swain ;' 
 ' Cheer up my Lads,' was Simon's song, 
 
 ' We'll conquer them again.' 
 
 " Now twelve o'clock was drawing nigh, 
 
 And all in merry cue ; 
 I knock'd the cask, ' O, ho !' said I, 
 
 ' We've almost conquer'd you.' 
 
204 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 " My Lord* begg'd round, and held his hat ; 
 
 Says Farmer Gruff", says he, 
 ' There's many a Lord, Sam, I know that, 
 
 Has begg'd as well as thee.' 
 
 " Bump in his hat the shillings tumbled 
 
 All round among the folks ; 
 ' Laugh if you wool,' said Sam, and mumbled 
 
 ' You pay for all your jokes.' 
 
 "Joint stock you know among the men, 
 
 To drink at their own charges ; 
 So up they got full drive, and then 
 
 Went out to halloo largess.f 
 
 " And sure enough the noise they made ! — 
 
 — But let me mind my tale: 
 We followed them, we worn't afraid, 
 
 We'd all been drinking ale. 
 
 *' As they stood hallooing back to back. 
 We, lightly as a feather, » 
 
 Went sideling round, and in a crack 
 Had pinn'd their coats together. 
 
 " 'Twas near upon't as light as noon ; 
 
 ' A largess,' on the hill, 
 They shouted to the full round moon, 
 
 I think I hear 'em still ! 
 
 * The leader of the reapers. i Ask presents. 
 
THE HORKEV. 205 
 
 "But when they found the trick, my stars ! 
 
 They well knew who to blame, 
 Our giggles turn'd to loud ha, ha's, 
 
 And arter us they came. 
 
 " The hindmost was the dairy-maid. 
 
 And Sam came blundering by ; 
 She could not shun him, so they said ; 
 
 I know she did not try. 
 
 " And off John set with all his might, 
 
 To chase me down the yard, 
 Till I was nearly gran'd* outright. 
 
 He hugg'd so woundy hard. 
 
 " Still they kept up the race and laugh, 
 
 And round the house we flew ; 
 But hark ye ! the best fun by half 
 
 Was Simon arter Sue. 
 
 " She cared not, dark nor light, not she, 
 
 So, near the dairy door 
 She pass'd a clean white hog, you see. 
 
 They'd kilt the day before. 
 
 " High on the spicketf there it hung, — 
 
 ' Now, Susie — what can save yel' 
 Round the cold pig his arms he flung. 
 
 And cried, < Ah ! here I have ye !' 
 
 ♦ Strangled. t An iron hook. 
 
206 V/ILD FLOWERS. 
 
 " The farmers heard what Simon said, 
 
 And what a noise ! good lack ! 
 Some almost laugh'd themselves to dead, 
 
 And others clapp'd his back. 
 
 " We all at once began to tell 
 
 What fun we had abroad ; 
 But Simon stood our jeers right well ; 
 
 He feel asleep and snored. 
 
 " Then in his button-hole upright 
 
 Did Farmer Crouder put 
 A slip of paper, twisted tight, 
 
 And held the candle to't. 
 
 <' It smoked, and smoked, beneath his nose, 
 
 The harmless blaze crept higher ; 
 Till with a vengeance up he rose, 
 
 ' Fire, Judie, Sue ! fire, fire.' 
 
 " The clock struck one — some talk'd of parting, 
 
 Some said it was a sin, 
 And hitch'd their chairs; — but those for starting 
 
 JVow let the moonlight in. 
 
 " Owd women, loitering for the nonce,* 
 
 Stood praising the fine weather ; 
 The men folks took the hint at once 
 
 To kiss them altogether. 
 
 * For the purpose. 
 
THE HORKET. 207 
 
 " And out ran every soul beside, 
 
 A shunny-pated* crew; 
 Owd folks could neither run nor hide, 
 
 So some ketch'd one, some tew. 
 
 " They skriggledf and began to scold, 
 
 But laughing got the master; 
 Some quack'lings^ cried, < Let go your hold ;' 
 
 The farmers held the faster. 
 
 " All innocent, that I'll be sworn. 
 
 There worn't a bit of sorrow. 
 And women, if their gowns were torn, 
 
 Can mend them on the morrow. 
 
 *' Our shadows helter skelter danced 
 
 About the moonlight ground ; 
 The wondering sheep, as on we pranced, 
 
 Got up and gazed around. 
 
 " And well they might — till Farmer Cheerura, 
 
 Now with a hearty glee, 
 Bade all good morn as he came near 'em, 
 
 And then to bed went he. 
 
 " Then off we stroU'd this way and that, 
 
 AVith merry voices ringing : 
 And Echo answer'd us right pat, 
 
 As home we rambled singing. 
 
 ♦ OidJy, thoughtless. | Choking. 
 
 t To struggle quick. 
 
203 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 " For, when we laugh'd, it laugh'd again, 
 And to our own doors follow'd ! 
 
 ' Yo, ho !' we cried : < Yo, ho !' so plain, 
 The misty meadow halloo'd. 
 
 " That's all my tale, and all the fun, 
 Come, turn your wheels about ; 
 
 My worsted see ! — that's nicely done, 
 Just held my story out ! !" 
 
 Poor Judie ! — Thus Time knits or spins 
 
 The worsted from Life's ball ! 
 Death stopp'd thy tales, and stopp'd thy pins, 
 
 — And so he'll serve us all. 
 
209 
 
 THE BROKEN CRUTCa 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 <» I TJiLL you, Peggy," said a voice behind 
 A hawthorn hedge, with wild briers thick en- 
 twined, 
 Where unseen trav'llers down a shady way 
 Journey'd beside the swathe of new-mown hay : 
 " I tell you, Peggy, 'tis a time to prove 
 Your fortitude, your virtue, and your love. 
 From honest poverty our lineage sprung, 
 Your mother was a servant quite as young : — 
 You weep ; perhaps she wept at leaving home ; 
 Courage, my girl, nor fear the days to come. 
 Go still to church, my Peggy, plainly drcss'd, 
 A.nd keep a living conscience in your breast ; 
 Look to yourself, my lass, the maid's best fame 
 Beware, nor bring the Meldrums into shame ; 
 Be modest, to the voice of truth attend. 
 Be honest, and you'll always find a friend : 
 Vour uncle Gilbert, stronger far than I, 
 Will see you safe ; on him you must rely : 
 14 
 
210 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 I've walk'd too far : this lameness, oh ! the pain ; 
 Heav'n bless thee, child ; I'll halt me back again ; 
 But when your first fair holiday may be, 
 Do, dearest Peggy, spend your hours with me." 
 
 Young Herbert Brooks, in strength and man- 
 hood bold, 
 Who, round the meads, his own possessions, 
 
 stroU'd, 
 O'erheard the charge, and with a heart so gay, 
 Whistled his spaniel, and pursued his way. 
 8oon cross'd his path, and short obeisance paid, 
 Stout Gilbert Meldrum and a country maid ; 
 A box upon his shoulder held full well 
 Her worldly riches, but the truth to tell 
 8he bore the chief herself; that nobler part. 
 That beauteous gem, an uncorrupted heart. 
 And then that native loveliness — that cheek ! 
 It wore the very tints her betters seek. 
 At such a sight the libertine would glow 
 With all the warmth that he can never know ; 
 Would send his thoughts abroad without control. 
 The glimmering moonshine of his little soul. 
 " Above the reach of justice I shall soar, 
 Her friends may rail, not punish ; they're too poor ! 
 That very thought the rapture will enhance, 
 Poor, young, and friendless; what a glorious 
 
 chance ! 
 A few spare guineas may the conquest make, — 
 I love the treachery for treachery's sake, — 
 
THE BKOKEN CRUTCH. 211 
 
 And when her wounded honour jealous grows, 
 I'll cut away ten thousand oaths and vows, 
 And bravely boast, all snarling fools defying, 
 How I a girl out-witted, just by lying." 
 Such was not Herbert — he had never known 
 Love's genuine smiles, nor suffer'd from his 
 
 frowns ; 
 And as to that most honourable part 
 Of planting daggers in a parent's heart, 
 A novice quite ; — he pass'd his hours away, 
 Free as a bird, and buxom as the day ; 
 Yet, should a lovely girl by chance arise, 
 Think not that Herbert Brooks would shut his 
 
 eyes. 
 
 On thy calm joys with what delight I dream, 
 Thou dear green valley of my native stream ! 
 Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand, 
 And every nook of thine is fairy land, 
 And ever will be, though the axe should smite 
 In Gain's rude service, and in Pity's spite, 
 Thy clustering alders, and at length invade 
 The last, last poplars, that compose thy shade : 
 'i'hy stream shall still in native freedom stray, 
 And undermine the willows in its way ; 
 These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm, 
 This scythe of desolation call'd " Reform :" 
 No army pass'd that way ; yet are they fled, 
 'i'he boughs that, when a school-boy, screen'J my 
 head. 
 
212 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 I hate the murderous axe ; estranging more 
 
 The winding vale from what it was of yore, 
 
 Than e'en mortality in all its rage, 
 
 And all the change of faces in an age. 
 
 " Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free 1 
 
 They stripp'd thy shades, — thy shades so dear 
 
 to me: 
 In Herbert's days woods clothed both hill and dale : 
 But peace, Remembrance ! let us tell the tale. 
 
 His home was in the valley, elms grew round 
 His moated mansion, and the pleasant sound 
 Of woodland birds that loud at day-break sing, 
 With the first cuckoos that proclaim the spring. 
 Flock'd round his dwelHng; and his kitchen smoke, 
 That from the towering rookery upward broke, 
 Of joyful import to the poor hard by, 
 Stream'd a glad sign of hospitality ; 
 So fancy pictures ; but its day is o'er. 
 The moat remains ; the dwelling is no more . 
 Its name denotes its melancholy fall, 
 For village children call the spot " Burnt Hall." 
 But where's the maid, who in the meadow-way. 
 Met Herbert Brooks among the new-mown hay I 
 
 Th' adventure charm'd him, and next morning 
 rose 
 The Sabbath, with its silence and repose ; 
 The bell ceased chiming, and the broad blue sky 
 Smiled on his peace, and met his tranquil eye 
 
THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 213 
 
 Inverted, from the foot-bridge on his way 
 To that still house where all his fathers lay ; 
 There in his seat, each neighbour's face he knew — 
 The stranger girl was just before his pew ! 
 He saw her kneel, with meek but cheerful air, 
 And whisper the response to every prayer ; 
 And when the humble roof with praises rung, 
 He caught the Hallelujah from her tongue, 
 liememb'ring with delight the tears that fell 
 When the poor father bade his child farewell ! 
 And now, by kindling tenderness beguiled. 
 He bless'd the prompt obedience of that child, 
 And link'd his fate with hers : — for, from that day, 
 Whether the weeks pass'd cheerily away, 
 Or deep revolving doubts procured him pain, 
 The same bells chimed — and there she was again ! 
 What could be done] they came not there to 
 
 woo 
 On holy ground, — though love is holy too. 
 
 They met upon the foot-bridge one clear morn, 
 She in the garb by village lasses worn ; 
 He with unbutton'd frock that careless flew. 
 And buskin to resist the morning dew ; 
 With downcast looks she curtsied to the ground, 
 Just in his path — no room to sidle round. 
 
 " Well, pretty girl, this early rising yields 
 The best enjoyment of the groves and fields, 
 
'<il4 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 And makes the heart susceptible and meek, 
 And keeps alive that rose upon your cheek. 
 I long'd to meet you, Peggy, though so shy, 
 I've watch'd your steps, and learn'd your history. 
 You love your poor lame father, let that be 
 A happy presage of your love for me. 
 Come then, I'll stroll these meadows by your side, 
 I've seen enough to wish you for my bride, 
 j\nd I must tell you so. — Nay, let me hold 
 This guiltless hand, I prize it more than gold ; 
 Of that I have my share, but fain would prove 
 The sterling wealth of honourable love ; 
 My lands are fruitful, and my flocks increase ; 
 My house knows plenty, and my servants peace ; 
 One blessing more will crown my happy life, 
 Like Adam, pretty girl, I want a wife." 
 
 Need it be told his suit was not denied, 
 With youth, and wealth, and candour on his 
 
 sidel 
 Honour took charge of love so well begun. 
 And accidental meetings, one by one, 
 Increased so fast 'midst time's unheeded flight, 
 That village rumour married them outright ; 
 Though wiser matrons, doubtful in debate, 
 Pitied deluded Peggy's hapless fate. 
 Friends took Ih' alarm, " And will he then disgrace 
 The name of Brooks with this plebeian race!" 
 Others, more lax in virtue, not in pride, 
 Sported the wink of cunning on one side ; 
 
THE broke:^ crutch. 215 
 
 " He'll buy, no doubt, what Peggy has to sell, — 
 a\. Utile gallantry becomes him well." 
 Meanwhile the youth, with self-determined aim, 
 Disdaining fraud, and pride's unfeeling claim, 
 Above control, pursued his generous way, 
 And talked to Peggy of the marriage-day. 
 Poor girl ! she heard, with anguish and with doubt. 
 What her too-knowing neighbours preach'd about, 
 'J 'hat Herbert would some nobler match prefer. 
 And surely never, never marry her ; 
 Yet, with what trembling and delight she bore 
 The kiss, and heard tlie vow. " I'll doubt no more ! 
 Protect me, Herbert, for youi^onour's sake, — 
 You will," she cried, " i>ot leave my heart to 
 
 break." 
 Then wrote to uncle Gilbert, joys, and fears. 
 And hope, and trust, and sprinkled all with tears. 
 
 Roused was the dormant spirit of the brave, 
 E'en lameness rose to succour and to save ; 
 For. tho' they both revered young Herbert's name, 
 And knevsr his unexceptionable fame ; 
 And though the girl had honestly declared 
 Love's first approaches, and their counsel shared ; 
 Yet, that he truly meant to take for life 
 The poor and lowly Peggy for a wife. 
 Or that she was not doomed to be deceived, 
 Was out of bounds : — it could not be believed. 
 " GK), Gilbert, save her ; I, you know, am lame : 
 Go, brother, go, and save my child from shame. 
 
216 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Haste, and I'll pray for your success the while ; 
 Go, go !" — then bang'd his crutch upon the stile : — 
 It snapp'd. — E'en Gilbert trembled while he smote, 
 Then whipp'd the broken end beneath his coat ; 
 " Ay, ay, I'll settle them ; I'll let them see 
 Who's to be conqu'ror this time, I or he !" 
 
 Then off he set, and with enormous strides, 
 Rebellious mutterings, and oaths besides, 
 O'er clover-field and fallow, bank and brier. 
 Pursued the nearest cuts, and fann'd the fire 
 That burnt within him. — So soon the Hall he spied, 
 And the gray willows by the water side : 
 JVature cried, "Halt!" nor could he well refuse; 
 Stop, Gilbert, breathe awhile, and hear the news. 
 "iVews!" cried a stooping grandame of the vale, 
 " Ay, rare news too; I'll tell you such a tale; 
 But let me rest ; this bank is dry and warm ; 
 Do you know Peggy Meldrum at the farm ? 
 Young Herbert's girl 1 He's clothed her all in 
 
 white. 
 You never saw so beautiful a sight! 
 Ah, he's a fine young man, and such a face ! 
 I knew his grandfather and all his race; 
 He rode a tall white horse and look so big, 
 But how shall I describe his hat and wig ?" 
 *' Plague take his wig," cried Gilbert, " and his hat ! 
 Where's Peggy Meldrum 1 can you tell me that]" 
 " Ay, but have patience, man ! you'll hear anon, 
 For I shall come to her as I go on. — 
 
THE BnOKEN CRUTCH, 217 
 
 So hark ye, friend ! his grandfather, I say," — 
 " Poh, poh," cried Gilbert, as he turn'd away. 
 Her eyes were fix'd, her story at a stand, 
 The snuff-box lay half-open'd in her hand ; 
 " You great, ill-manner'd clown ! but I must 
 
 bear it ! 
 You oaf! to ask the news, and then won't hear 
 
 it!" 
 But Gilbert had gain'd forty paces clear 
 When the reproof came murmuring on his ear. 
 
 Again he asked the first that passed him by ; 
 A cow-boy stopp'd his whistle to reply. 
 " Why, I've a mistress coming home, that's all — 
 They're playing Meg's diversion at the Hall ; 
 For master's gone, with Peggy, and his cousin, 
 And all the lady -folks, about a dozen, 
 To church, down there; he'll marry one, no 
 
 doubt. 
 For that, it seems, is what they're gone about ; 
 I know it by their laughing and their jokes, 
 Though they worn't ask'd at church like other 
 folks." 
 
 Gilbert kept on, and at the Hall-door found 
 The winking servants, where the jest went round, 
 All expectation ; ay, and so was he, 
 But not with heart so merry and so free : 
 The kitchen table never clear from beef, 
 Where hunger found its solace and relief, 
 
213 WILD FLOWEKS. 
 
 Free to ail strangers, had uo charms for him, 
 
 For agitation worried every hmb ; 
 
 Ale he partook, but appetite had none, 
 
 And gray-hounds watch'd in vain to catch the 
 
 bone. 
 All sounds alarm'd him, and all thoughts perplex'd. 
 With dogs, and beef, himself, and all things vex'd. 
 Till with one mingled caw above his head, 
 Their gliding shadows o'er the court-yard spread, 
 The rooks by thousands rose ; the bells struck up ; 
 He guess'd the cause, and down he set the cup, 
 And listening, heard, amidst the general hum, 
 A joyful exclamation, " Here they come ! — 
 Soon Herbert's cheerful voice was heard above, 
 Amidst the rustling hand-maids of his love, 
 And Gilbert follow'd without thought or dread. 
 The broad oak stair-case thunder'd with his tread ; 
 Light tripp'd the party, gay as gay could be, 
 Amidst their bridal dresses — there came he ! 
 And with a look that guilt could ne'er withstand, 
 Approach'd his niece, and caught her by the hand : 
 " Now are you married, Peggy, yes or no 1 
 Tell me at once, before I let you go !" 
 Abrupt he spoke, and gave her arm a swing. 
 But the same moment felt the wedding ring. 
 And stood confused. — She wiped th' impassion'd 
 
 tear, 
 " I am, I am ; but is my father here 1" 
 Herbert stood by, and sharing with his bride 
 That perturbation which she strove to hide ; 
 
THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 219 
 
 " Come, honest Gilbert, you're too rough this time, 
 Indeed here's not the shadow of a crime ; 
 But Where's your brother'! when did you arrive? 
 We waited long, for Nathan went at live !" 
 
 All this was Greek to Gilbert, downright Greek ; 
 He knew not what to think, or how to speak. 
 The case was this : that JVathan with a cart 
 To fetch them both at day-break was to start, 
 And so he did — but ere he could proceed. 
 He suck'd a charming portion with a reed, 
 Of that same wedding-ale, which was that day 
 To make the hearts of all the village gay ; 
 Brim full of glee he trundled from the Hall, 
 And as for sky-larks, he out-sung them all ; 
 Till growing giddy with his morning cup, 
 He, stretch'd beneath a hedge, the reins gave up ; 
 The horse grazed soberly without mishap, 
 And Nathan had a most delightful nap 
 For three good hours. — Then, doubting, when he 
 
 woke. 
 Whether his conduct would be deem'd a joke. 
 With double haste performed just half his part. 
 And brought the lame John Meldrum in his cart 
 And at that moment Gilbert's wrath was high. 
 And while young Herbert waited his reply. 
 The sound of rattling wheels was at the door ; 
 " There's my dear father now," — they heard no 
 more; 
 
220 WILD FLOWERS, 
 
 The bridegroom glided like an arrow down, 
 And Gilbert ran, though something of a clown, 
 With his best step ; and cheered with smiles and 
 
 pray'rs. 
 They bore old John in triumph up the stairs : 
 Poor Peggy, who her joy no more could check, 
 Clung like a dewy woodbine round his neck. 
 And all stood silent. Gilbert, off his guard, 
 And marvelling at virtue's rich reward, 
 Jjoosed the one loop that held his coat before ; 
 Down thump'd the broken crutch upon the floor ! 
 They started, half alarm'd, scarce knowing why. 
 But through the glist'ning rapture of his eye 
 The bridegroom smiled, then chid their simple 
 
 fears. 
 And roused the blushing Peggy from her tears ; 
 Around the uncle in a ring they came. 
 And mark'd his look of mingled pride and shame. 
 
 «' Now honestly, good Gilbert, tell us true, 
 What meant this cud.gel 1 What was it to do ? 
 I know your heart suspected me of wrong, 
 And that most true afiectionv urged along 
 Your feelings and your wrath ; you were, beside. 
 Till now the rightful guardian of the bride. 
 But why this cudgel] " — "Guardian! that's the 
 
 case, 
 Or else to-day I had not seen this place : 
 But John about the girl was so perplex'd, 
 And I, to tell the truth, so mortal vex'd, 
 
THE BROKEN' CRUTCH. 221 
 
 That when he broke this crutch, and stampt, and 
 
 cried, 
 For John and Peggy, sir, I could have died : 
 Ay, that I could ; for she was such a child, 
 So tractable, so sensible, so mild, 
 That if between you roguery had grown, 
 (Begging your pardon,) 'twould have been your 
 
 own ; 
 She would not hurt a fly. — So off I came, 
 And had I found you injuring her fame. 
 And base enough so act as hundreds would. 
 To ruin a poor maid — because you could, 
 With this same cudgel, (you may smile or frown,) 
 An' please you, sir, I meant to knock you down." 
 
 A burst of laughter rang throughout the Hall, 
 And Peggy's tongue, though overborne by all, 
 Pour'd its warm blessings ; for without control 
 The sweet unbridled transport of her soul 
 Was obviously seen, till Herbert's kiss 
 Stole, as it were, the eloquence of bliss. 
 " Welcome, my friends ; good Gilbert, here's my 
 
 hand : 
 Eat, drink, or rest, they're all at your command : 
 And whatsoever pranks the rest may play. 
 You still shall be the hero of the day. , 
 
 Doubts might torment, and blunders may have 
 
 teased. 
 Let my ale cure them : let us all be pleased. 
 
222 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 And as for honest John, let me defend 
 
 The father of my new, my bosom friend ; 
 
 You broke your crutch — well, well, worse luck 
 
 might be ; 
 I'll be your crutch, John Meldrum, lean on me : 
 And when your lovely daughter shall complain. 
 Send Gilbert's wooden argument again. 
 You still may wonder that I take a wife 
 From the secluded walks of humble life. 
 On reason's solid ground my love began, 
 And let the wise confute it if they can. 
 A girl I saw, with nature's untaught grace, 
 Turn from my gaze a most engaging face ! 
 I saw her drop the tear ; I knew full well 
 She felt for you much more than she could tell. 
 I found her understanding, bright as day, 
 Through all impediments still forced its way ; 
 On that foundation shall my hopes rely, 
 The rock of genuine humility. 
 Call'd as she is to act a nobler part. 
 To rule my household, and to share my heart, 
 I trust her prudence, confident to prove 
 Days of delight, and still unfading love; 
 And, while her inborn tenderness survives. 
 That heav'nly charm of mothers and of wives, 
 I'll look for joy : — But see, the neighbours all 
 Come posting on to share the festival ; 
 And I'm determined, while the sun's so bright, 
 That this shall be the wedding-day outright: 
 
THE BROKEN CRUTCH. 223 
 
 How cheerly sound the bells ! my charmer, come, 
 Partake their joy, atid know yourself at home. 
 Sit down, good John !" — " I will," the old man 
 
 cried, 
 And let me drink to you, sir, and the bride ; 
 jVIy blessing ou you : I am lame and old, 
 I can't make speeches, and I won't be bold ; 
 But from my soul I wish and wish again. 
 That brave good gentlemen would not disdain 
 The poor, because they're poor : for if they live 
 'Midst crimes that parents never can forgive. 
 If like the forest beast they wander wild, 
 To rob a father, or to crush a child, 
 Nature will speak — ay, just as Nature feels 
 And wish — a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels." 
 
224 
 
 SHOOTER'S HILL.* 
 
 Hkalth ! I seek thee ; — dost thou love 
 
 The mountain-top, or quiet vale ; 
 Or deign o'er humbler hills to rove 
 
 On showery June's dark south-west gale 1 
 If so, I'll meet all blasts that blow, 
 
 With silent step, but not forlorn ; 
 Though, goddess, at thy shrine I bow. 
 
 And woo thee each returning mora 
 
 I seek thee where, with all his might 
 
 The joyous bird his rapture tells. 
 Amidst the half-excluded light 
 
 That gilds the fox-glove's pendant bells ; 
 Where cheerly up the bold hill's side 
 
 The deep'ning groves triumphant climb ; 
 In groves Delight and Peace abide, 
 
 And Wisdom marks the lapse of time. 
 
 * Sickness may be often an incentive to poetirnl 
 composition— I found it so : and I esteem the fono'.v- 
 inu lines only because they remind me of past feelinuc* 
 \v hicti I would not willingly forget. 
 
SHOOTER S HILL. 225 
 
 To hide me from the public eye, 
 
 To keep the throne of Reason clear, 
 Amidst fresh air to breathe or die, 
 
 I took my staff and wander'd here : 
 Suppressing every sight that heaves, 
 
 And coveting no wealth but thee, 
 I nestle in the honeyed leaves, 
 
 And hug my stolen liberty. 
 
 O'er eastward uplands, gay or rude, 
 
 Along to Erith's ivied spire, 
 I start, with strength and hope renew'd, 
 
 And cherish life's rekindling fire : 
 Now measure vales with straining eyes, 
 
 Now trace the church-yard's humble names, 
 Or climb brown heaths, abrupt that rise, 
 
 And overlook the winding Thames. 
 
 I love to mark the flow'ret's eye, 
 
 To rest where pebbles form my bed, 
 Where shapes and colours scatter'd lie. 
 
 In varying millions round my head. 
 The soul rejoices when alone. 
 
 And feels her glorious empire free ; 
 Sees God in every shining stone, 
 
 And revels in variety. 
 
 Ah, me ! perhaps within my sight. 
 
 Deep in the smiling dales below, 
 Gigantic talents, Heaven's pure light, 
 
 And all the rays of genius glow, 
 15 
 
?26 WILD FLOWEr.S. 
 
 In some lone soul, whom no one sees, 
 With power and will to say, <' Arise," 
 
 Or chase away the slow disease, 
 
 And Want's foul picture from his eyes. 
 
 A worthier man by far than I, 
 
 With more of industry and fire. 
 Shall see fair Virtue's meed pass by, 
 
 Without one spark of fame expire! 
 Bleed not, my heart — it will be so, 
 
 The throb of care was thine full long. 
 Rise, like the Psalmist from his woe, 
 
 And pour abroad the joyful song. 
 
 Sweet Health, I seek thee ! hither bring 
 
 Thy balm that softens human ills; 
 Come on the long-drawn clouds that fling 
 
 Their shadows o'er the Surrey Hills : 
 Yon green-topp'd hills, and far away, 
 
 Where late as now I freedom stole, 
 And spent one dear delicious day 
 
 On thy wild banks, romantic Mole. 
 
 Ay, there's the scene !* beyond the sweep 
 Of London's congregated cloud ; 
 
 The dark-brow'd wood, the headlong steep, 
 And valley-paths without a crowd ! 
 
 ♦ Pox-Hill, and the beautiful neighbourhood of Dor- 
 king, in Surrey. 
 
shooter's kill. 227 
 
 Here, Thames, I watch thy flowing tides, 
 Thy thousand sails am proud to see : 
 
 But where the Mole all silent glides 
 
 Dwells Peace — and Peace is wealth to me. 
 
 Of Cambrian mountains still I dream, 
 
 And mouldering vestiges of war; 
 By time-worn cliff or classic stream 
 
 Would rove, — but Prudence holds a bar. 
 Come then, O Health ! I'll strive to bound 
 
 My wishes to this airy stand ; 
 'Tis not for me to trace around 
 
 The wonders of my native land. 
 
 Yet the loud torrent's dark retreat, 
 
 Yet Grampian hills shall Fancy give, 
 And, towering in her giddy seat, 
 
 Amidst her own creation live, — 
 Live, if thou'lt urge my climbing feet, 
 
 Give strength of nerve and vigorous breath ; 
 If not, with dauntless soul I'll meet 
 
 The deep solemnity of death. 
 
 This far-seen monumental tower 
 
 Records th' achievements of the brave, 
 And Angria's subjugated power. 
 
 Who plunder'd on the eastern wave : 
 I would not that such turrets rise 
 
 To point out where my bones are laid, 
 Save that some wandering bard might prize 
 
 The comforts of its broad cool shade. 
 
228 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 O Vanity ! since thou"rt decreed 
 
 Companion of our lives to be, 
 I'll seek the moral songster's meed — 
 
 An earthly immortality. 
 Most vain ! — let me from the past, 
 
 Rememb'ring what to rnan is given. 
 Lay Virtue's broad foundations fast, 
 
 Whose glorious turrets reach to Heav'n* 
 
 V 
 
229 
 
 MARY'S EVENING SIGH. 
 
 How bright with pearl the western sky ! 
 
 How glorious, far and wide. 
 Yon lines of golden clouds that lie 
 
 So peaceful side by side ! 
 Their deep'ning tints, the arch of light, 
 
 All eyes with rapture see ; 
 E'en while I sigh, I bless the sight 
 
 That lures my love from thee. 
 
 Green hill, that shad'st the valley here, 
 
 Thou bear'st upon thy brow 
 The only wreath to Mary dear, 
 
 And all she'll ever know. 
 There, in the crimson light I see, 
 
 Above the summit rise. 
 My Edward's form — he looks to me 
 
 A statue in the skies. 
 
 Descend, my love, the hour is come, 
 
 Why linger on the hill? 
 The sun hath left my quiet home, 
 
 But thou canst see him still ; 
 
230 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Yet wily a lonely wanderer stray, 
 
 Alone the joy pursue ] 
 The glories of the closing day 
 
 Can charm thy Mary too. 
 
 Dear Edward, when we stroH'd along 
 
 Beneath the waving corn. 
 And both confessed the power of song. 
 
 And blessed the dewy morn, 
 Your eye o'erflow'd, <' How sweet,'' you cried, 
 
 (My presence then could move,) 
 " How sweet, with Mary by my side. 
 
 To gaze and talk of love !" 
 
 Thou art not false ! that cannot be ; 
 
 Yet I my rivals deem 
 Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree. 
 
 The silence, and the stream ; 
 Whate'er, my love, detains thee now, 
 
 I'll yet forgive thy stay ; 
 But with to-morrow's dawn come thou, 
 
 We'll brush the dews away. 
 
231 
 
 BARNHAM WATER 
 
 Fresh from the Hall of Bounty sprung* 
 
 With glowing heat and ardent eye, 
 .With song and rhyme upon my tongue, 
 
 And fairy visions dancing by, 
 The mid-day sun in all his pow'r, 
 
 The backward valley painted gay, 
 Mine was a road without a flower. 
 
 Where one small streamlet cross'd the way. 
 
 What was it roused my soul to love 1 
 
 What made the simple brook so dear 1 
 It glided like the weary dove, 
 
 And never brook seem'd half so dear 1 
 Cool pass'd the current o'er my feet. 
 
 Its shelving brink for rest was made, 
 But every charm was incomplete. 
 
 For Barnham Water wants a shade. 
 
 * On a sultry afternoon, late in the summer of 1802, 
 Euston Hall lay in my way to Thetlbrd, which place I 
 did not reach until the evening, on a visit to my sister ; 
 the lines lose mach of ih«!ir interest unless they could 
 be read on the spot, or at least a corresponding season 
 of the vear. 
 
232 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 There, faint beneath the fervid sun, 
 
 I gazed in ruminating mood ; 
 For who can see the current run 
 
 And snatch no feast of mental food 1 
 "Keep pure thy soul," it seem'd to say, 
 
 "Keep that fair path by wisdom trod, 
 That thou may'st hope to wind thy way, 
 
 To fame worth boasting, and to God." 
 
 Long and delightful was the dream, 
 
 A waking dream that fancy yields, 
 Till with regret I left the stream, 
 
 And plunged across the barren fields ; 
 To where of old rich abbeys smiled 
 
 In all the pomp of gothic taste, 
 By fond tradition proudly styled 
 
 " The mighty City in the East." 
 
 Near, on a slope of burning sand. 
 
 The shepherd hoys had met to play, 
 To hold the plain at their command. 
 
 And mark the trav'ller's leafless way. 
 The trav'ller with a cheerful look 
 
 Would every pining thought forbear, — 
 If boughs but shelter'd Barnham Brook, 
 
 He'd stop and leave his blessing there. 
 
 The Danish mounds of partial green. 
 Still, as each mouldering tower decays, 
 
 Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene 
 
 Proclaim their wond'rous length of days. 
 
EAr.VHA.M WATER. 233 
 
 My burning feet, my aching sight, 
 Demanded rest, — why did I weep? 
 
 The moon arose, and such a night ! 
 Good Heav'n ! it was a sin to sleep. 
 
 All rushing came thy hallow'd sighs. 
 
 Sweet Melancholy, from my breast; 
 •' 'Tis here that eastern greatness lies, 
 
 That Might, Renown, and Wisdom rest. 
 Here funeral rites the priesthood gave 
 
 To chiefs who sway'd prodigious powers — 
 The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave — 
 
 From Framlingham's imperial towers." 
 
 Full of the mighty deeds of yore, 
 
 I bade good night the trembling beam; 
 Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar, 
 
 Of what but slaughter could I dream? 
 iJless'd be that night, that trembling beam, 
 
 Peaceful excursions Fancy made; 
 All night I heard the bubbling stream, 
 
 Yet 13 am ham Water wants a shade. 
 
 Whatever hurts my country's fame, 
 
 When wits and mountaineers deride, 
 To me grows serious, for I name 
 
 My native plains and streams with pride. 
 No mountain charms have I to sing, 
 
 No loftier minstrel's rights invade; 
 From trifles oft my raptures spring; 
 
 — Sweet liarnham Water wants a shade. 
 
234 
 
 THE WOODLAND HALLOO. 
 
 (PERHAPS) ADAPTED FOR MUSIC. 
 
 Its our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the 
 wood, 
 
 I am mistress, no mother have I ; 
 Yet bhthe are my days, for my father is good, 
 
 And kind is my lover, hard by ; 
 They both work together beneath the green shade, 
 
 Both woodmen, my father and Joe ; 
 Where I've hsten'd whole hours to the echo that 
 made 
 
 So much of a laugh or Halloo. 
 
 From my basket at noon they expect their supply, 
 And with joy from my threshold I spring ; 
 
 For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving 
 high. 
 And Echo that sings as I sing. 
 
Tin: WOODLAND HALLOO. 233 
 
 Though deep shades dehght me, yet love is my 
 food, 
 
 As I call the dear name of my Joe ; 
 His musical shout is the pride of the wood, 
 
 And my heart leaps to hear the Halloo. 
 
 Simple flowers of the grove, little birds, live at ease, 
 
 I wish not to wander from you ; 
 I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees. 
 
 For I know that my Joe will be true. 
 The thrill of the robin, the coo of the dove, 
 
 Are charms that I'll never forego ; 
 But resting through Ufe on the bosom of love, 
 
 Will remember the Woodland Halloo. 
 
236 
 
 ON REVISITING THE PLACE OF MY 
 NATIVITY. 
 
 Though winter's frowns had damp'd the beaming 
 
 eye, 
 Through twelve successive summers heaved the 
 
 sigh, 
 The unaccomplish'd wish was still the same; 
 Till May in new and sudden glories came ! 
 My heart was roused ; and fancy on the wing, 
 Thus heard the language of enchanting Spring : 
 
 " Come to thy native groves and fruitful fields ! 
 Thou know'st the fragrance that the wild flow'r 
 
 yields ; 
 Inhale the breeze that bends the purple bud, 
 And plays along the margin of the wood. 
 I've cloth'd them all ; the very woods where thou 
 In fancy learned'st praise from every bough. 
 Would'st thou behold again the vernal day 1 
 My reign is short; — this instant come away : 
 Ere Philomel shall silent meet the morn ; 
 She hails the green, but not the rip'ning corn. 
 
THE PLACE OF MY .\ATIVITY. L' J / 
 
 Come, ere the pastures lose their yellow flow'rs; 
 Come now, with heart as jocund as the hours." 
 
 Who could resist the call ; — that, Giles had done, 
 Nor heard the birds, nor seen the rising Sun : 
 Had not benevolence, with cheering ray, 
 And greatness stoop'd, indulgent to display 
 Praise which does not sure to Giles belong. 
 But to the objects that inspired his song. 
 Immediate pleasure from those praises flow'd : 
 Remoter bliss within his bosom glow'd ! 
 Now tasted all : — for I have heard and seen 
 The long remember'd voice, the church, the green ; 
 And oft by friendship's gentle hand been led 
 Where many an hospitable board was spread. 
 These would I name — but each, and all can feel 
 What the full heart would willingly reveal : 
 Nor needs be told ; that at each season's birth. 
 Still the enamell'd, or the scorching earth 
 Gave, as each morn or weary night would come. 
 Ideal sweetness to my distant home : — 
 Ideal now no more ; — for, to ray view 
 Spring's promise rose, how admirably true ! ! 
 The early chorus of the cheerful grove, 
 Gave point to gratitude ; and fire to love. 
 O memory ! shield me from the world's poor strife ; 
 And give those scenes thine everlasting life ! 
 
003 590 969 2