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52 
18 


THE  U13RARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNi^ 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEM   S 


DESCRIPTIVE  OF 


RURAL  LIFE  AND  SCENERY. 


interiiorarv  Loans    (*«r    Osplk 
Uiiversitv  i^esearcn  LiWSfV 
Onivei'Suv    .1'  union, a.  «.os  Adgfllel 


.'^i.i^min   ijnno/ 


T.  Miller,  Printer,  Noble  Street, 
Cheapiide,  London, 


POEMS 


DESCRIPTIVE  OF 


RURAL  LIFE  AND  SCENERY. 


BY  JOHN  CLARE, 

A    NORTHAMPTONSHIRE    PEASANT. 


'The  Summer's  Flower  is  to  the  Snmmer  sweet, 

'  Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die." 

Shaispeare. 


LONDON: 

1'U1MT1::U   lOR  TAYLOR   AM)    HKSSEY,    FLEET   STREET; 
AND    E.    URURY,    STAMFORD. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  following  Poems  will  probably  attract  some 
notice  by  their  intrinsic  merit;  but  they  are  also 
entitled  to  attention  from  the  circumstances  under 
which  they  were  written.  They  are  the  genuine 
productions  of  a  young  Peasant,  a  day-labourer  in 
husbandry,  who  has  had  no  advantages  of  education 
beyond  others  of  his  class ;  and  though  Poets  in 
this  country  have  seldom  been  fortunate  men, 
yet  he  is,  perhaps,  the  least  favoured  by  circum- 
stances, and  tlu;  most  destitute  of  friends,  of  any 
that  ever  existed. 

John  Clare,  the  author  of  this  Volume,  was 
born  at  Helpstone,  near  Peterborough,  Northamp- 
tonshire, on  the  13th  of  July,  1793.  He  is  the  only 
son  of  Parker  and  Ann  Clare,  who  are  also  natives 
of  the  same  village,  where  they  have  always  resided 
in  extreme  poverty ;  nor  are  they  aware  that  any  of 


7 1  ''?n2.i^ 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

their  ancestors  have  been  in  better  circumstances. 
Parker  Clare  is  a  farmer's  labourer,  and  latterly 
he  was  employed  in  threshing;  but  violent  colds 
brought  on  the  rheumatism  to  such  a  degree  that  he 
was  at  length  unable  to  work,  or  even  to  move 
without  assistance.  By  the  kind  liberality  of  Lord 
Milton  he  was  then  sent  to  the  Sea-bathing  In- 
firmary at  Scarborough,  where  he  found  great  relief; 
but  returning  home  part  of  the  way  on  foot,  from  a 
desire  to  save  expenses,  his  exertions  and  exposure 
to  the  weather  brought  on  the  pain  again,  and  re- 
duced him  to  a  more  deplorable  state  than  ever. 
He  is  now  a  helpless  cripple,  and  a  pauper,  receiv- 
ing an  allowance  of  five  shillings  a  week  from  the 
parish. 

John  Clare  has  always  lived  with  his  parents 
at  Helpstone,  except  for  those  short  periods  when 
the  distance  to  which  he  was  obliged  to  go  for  work 
prevented  his  return  every  evening.  At  his  own 
home,  therefore,  he  saw  Poverty  in  all  its  most 
affecting  shapes,  and  when  he  speaks  of  it,  as  in 
the  Address  to  Plenty,  p.  48, 

"  Oh,  sad  sons  of  Poverty ! 
Victims  doom'd  to  misery ; 
Who  can  paint  what  pain  prevails 
O'er  that  heart  which  want  assails  ? 
Modest  Shame  the  pain  conceals : 
No  one  knows,  but  he  who  feels" 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 


And  again  : 


"  Toiling  in  the  naked  fields. 
Where  no  bush  a  shelter  yields, 
Needy  Labour  dithering  S'taiids, 
Beats  and  blows  his  numbing  hands ; 
And  upon  the  crumping  snows 
Stamps,  in  vain,  to  warm  his  toes" 


he  utters  "  no  idly-feign'd  poetic  pains :"  it  is  a 
picture  of  what  he  has  constantly  witnessed  and 
felt.  One  of  our  poets  has  gained  great  credit  by 
his  exterior  delineations  of  what  the  poor  man  suf- 
fers; but  in  the  reality  of  wretchedness,  when  "  the 
iron  enters  into  the  soul,"  there  is  a  tone  which  can- 
not be  imitated.  Clare  has  here  an  unhappy  ad- 
vantage over  other  poets.  The  most  miserable  of 
them  were  not  always  wretched.  Penury  and 
disease  were  not  constantly  at  their  heels,  nor  was 
pauperism  their  only  prospect.  But  he  has  no 
other,  for  the  lot  which  has  befallen  his  father,  may, 
with  too  much  reason,  be  looked  forward  to  as  his 
own  portion.  In  the  "simple  annals  of  the  poor" 
want  occupies  a  part  of  every  page,  except,  perhaps, 
the  last,  where  the  scene  changes  to  the  workhouse; 
and  then  the  burthen  which  is  taken  from  the  body 
is  laid  upon  the  spirit :  at  least  it  would  be  so  with 
Clare;  for  though  the  contemplation  of  parochial 
relief  may  administer  to  some  minds  a  thankless, 

b  5 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

hopeless  sort  of  consolation,  under  the  pressure  of 
extreme  distress,  yet  to  the  writer  of  the  following 
lines  it  must  be  the  highest  aggravation  of  afflic- 
tion : — 

"  Oil,  may  1  die,  before  I'm  dooiu'd  to  seek 
That  last  resource  of  hope,  but  ill  supplied ; 

To  claim  the  humble  pittance  once  a  week, 

Which  justice  forces  from  disdainful  pride ! "     (p.  78.) 

While  such  was  the  destitute  condition  of  his 
parents,   it  may  seem    extraordinary  that   Clare 
should  have  found  the  means  to  acquire  any  learn- 
ing whatever ;  but  by  extra  work  as  a  ploughboy, 
and  by  helping  his  father  morning  and  evening  at 
threshing,  he  earned  the  money  which  paid  for  his 
education.      From  the  labour  of  eight  weeks   he 
generally  acquired  as  many  pence  as  would  pay  for 
a  month's   schooling ;     and  thus  in  the  course  of 
three  years  he  received,  at  difterent  times,  so  much 
instruction  that   he   could  read  very  well   in   the 
Bible.    He  considers  himself  to  have  derived  much 
benefit  from  the  judicious   encouragement   of  his 
schoolmaster,  Mr.  Seaton,  of  Glinton,  an  adjoining 
parish,  from  whom  he  sometimes  obtained  three- 
pence a  week  in  rewards,  and  who  once  gave  him 
sixpence   for   repeating,    from   memory,    the   third 
chapter  of  Job.     With  these  little  sums  he  bought 
a  few  books. 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

When  he  had  learned  to  read  tolerably  well,  he 
borrowed  from  one  of  his  companions  that  universal 
favourite,  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  in  the  perusal  of 
this  he  greatly  increased  his  stock  of  knowledge 
and  his  desire  for  reading.  He  was  thirteen  years 
of  ase  when  another  boy  shewed  him  Thomson's 
Seasons.  They  were  out  in  the  fields  together,  and 
during  the  day  Clare  had  a  good  opportunity  of 
looking  at  the  book.  It  called  forth  all  the  passion 
of  his  soul  for  poetry.  He  was  determined  to  pos- 
sess the  work  himself;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  saved 
a  shilling  to  buy  it  with,  he  set  off  for  Stamford  at 
so  early  an  hour,  that  none  of  the  shops  were  open 
when  he  got  there.  It  was  a  fine  Spring  morning, 
and  when  he  had  made  his  purchase,  and  was  re- 
turning through  the  beautiful  scenery  of  Burghley 
Park,  he  composed  his  first  piece  of  poetry,  which 
he  called  "The  Morning  Walk."  This  was  soon 
followed  by  the  "  Evening  Walk,"  and  some  other 
little  pieces. 

But  the  first  expression  of  his  fondness  for  Poetry 
was  before  he  had  learnt  to  read.  He  was  tired 
one  day  with  looking  at  the  pictures  in  a  volume  of 
poems,  which  he  thinks  were  Pomfret's,  when  his 
father  read  him  one  piece  in  the  book  to  amuse  him. 
The  delight  he  felt,  at  hearing  this  read,  still  warms 
him  when  he  thinks  of  the  circumstance  ;  but  though 


Xll  INTRODUCTION. 

he  distinctly  recollects  the  vivid  pleasure  which 
thrilled  through  him  then,  he  has  lost  all  trace 
of  the  incidents  as  well  as  of  the  language,  nor  can 
he  find  any  poem  of  Pomfret's  at  all  answering  the 
faint  conception  he  retains  of  it.  It  is  possible 
that  his  chief  gratification  was  in  the  harmony  of  the 
numbers,  and  that  he  had  thoughts  of  his  own  float- 
ing onward  with  the  verse  very  different  from  those 
which  the  same  words  would  now  suggest.  The 
various  melody  of  the  earliest  of  his  own  composi- 
tions is  some  argument  in  favour  of  this  opinion. 

His  love  of  Poetry,  however,  would  soon  have 
spent  itself  in  compositions  as  little  to  be  remem- 
bered as  that  M  hich  has  just  been  mentioned,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  kindness  of  Mr.  John  Turnill,  late 
of  Helpstone,  now  in  the  Excise,  who  was  indeed 
a  benefactor  to  him.  From  his  instruction  Clare, 
though  he  knew  a  little  of  the  rudiments  before, 
learnt  Writing  and  Arithmetic ;  and  to  this  friend 
he  must,  therefore,  consider  himself  indebted  for 
whatever  good,  may  accrue  to  him  from  the  exercise 
of  those  powers  of  mind  with  which  he  is  naturally 
endowed.  Tor  it  is  very  probable,  that,  without 
the  means  of  recording  his  productions  on  paper, 
Clare  woidd  not  only  have  lost  the  advantage  he 
may  derive  from  the  publication  of  his  works,  but 
that  also  in  himself  he  would  not  have  been  the 


INTRODUCTION.  XlU 

Poet  he  is ;  that,  without  writing  down  his  thoughts, 
he  could  not  have  evolved  them  from  his  mind; 
and  that  his  vocabulary  vvould  have  been  too  scanty 
to  express  even  what  his  imagination  had  strength 
enough  to  conceive.  Besides,  if  he  did  succeed  in 
partial  instances,  the  aggregate  amount  of  them 
could  not  have  been  collected  and  estimated.  A 
few  detached  songs  or  short  passages  might  be, 
perhaps,  treasured  in  the  memory  of  his  companions 
for  a  short  period,  but  they  would  soon  perish. 
In  his  "  Dawnings  of  Genius,"  Clare  describes 
the  condition  of  a  man,  whose  education  has  been 
too  contracted  to  allow  him  to  utter  the  thoughts 
of  which  he  is  conscious  : — 

"  Thus  pausing  wild  on  all  he  saunters  by. 
He  feels  enraptur'd  though  he  knows  not  why ; 
And  hums  and  mutters  o'er  bis  joys  in  vain,         , 
And  dwells  on  something  which  he  can't  explain. 
The  bursts  of  thought,  with  which  his  soul's  perplex'd, 
Are  bred  one  moment,  and  are  gone  the  next ; 
Yet  still  the  heart  will  kindling  sparks  retain, 
And  thoughts  will  rise,  and  Fancy  strive  again." 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  feeling  so  distressing  as  this 
to  the  individual :  it  is  an  irremoveable  nightmare, 
at  it  were,  to  Genius,  which  struggles  in  vain  for 
sounds  to  convey  an  idea  of  its  almost  intolerable 
sensations, 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

"  Till  by  successless  sallies  wearied  quite, 
The  Memory  fails,  and  Fancy  takes  her  flight ; 
Tlie  wick  coiifln'd  within  the  socket  dies. 
Borne  down  and  sniother'd  in  a  tliousand  sighs." 

That  this  would  have  been  Clare's  fate,  unless 
he  had  been  taught  to  write,  cannot  be  doubted ; 
and  a  perusal  of  his  Poems  will  convince  any  one, 
that  something  of  this  kind  he  still  feels,  from  his 
inability  to  find  those  words  which  can  fully  declare 
his  meaning.  From  the  want  of  a  due  supply  of 
these,  and  from  his  ignorance  of  grammar,  he  seems 
to  labour  under  great  disadvantages.  On  the  other 
hand,  his  want  forces  him  to  an  extraordinary  exertion 
of  his  native  powers,  in  order  to  supply  the  deficiency. 
He  employs  the  language  under  his  command  with 
great  effect,  in  those  unusual  and  unprecedented 
combinations  of  words  which  must  be  made,  even 
by  the  learned,  when  they  attempt  to  describe  per- 
fectly something  which  they  have  never  seen  or 
heard  expressed  before.  And  in  this  respect 
Clare's  deficiencies  are  the  cause  of  many  beau- 
ties,— for  though  he  must,  of  course,  innovate,  that 
he  may  succeed  in  his  purpose,  yet  he  does  it  ac- 
cording to  that  rational  mode  of  procedure,  by 
which  all  languages  have  been  formed  and  per- 
fected. Thus  he  frequently  makes  verbs  of  sub- 
stantives, as  in  the  lines, 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

"  Dark  and  darker  glooms  the  sky" 

"  To  pint  it  just  at  my  desire" 

Or  of  adjectives,  as  in  the  following, 

"  Spring's  pencil  pinks  tliee  in  thy  flushy  stain." 

But  in  this  he  has  done  no  more  than  the  man  who 
first  employed  crimson  as  a  verb  :  and  as  we  had  no 
word  that  would  in  such  brief  compass  supply  so 
clearly  the  sense  of  this,  he  was  justified  no  doubt 
in  taking  it.     Some  future  writers  may,  perhaps, 
feel  thankful  for  the  precedent.     But  there  is  no 
innovation  in   such  cases   as  these.      Inseparably 
connected  with  the  use  of  speech  is  the  privilege  to 
abbreviate ;  and  those  new  ideas,  which  in  one  age 
are  obliged  to  be  communicated  paraphrastically, 
have  generally  in  the   next  some  definite  term  as- 
signed them  :  so  legitimate,  however,  is  the  process 
of  this,  by  reason  of  certain  laws  of  analogy  which 
are  inherent  in  the  mind  of  man,  and  universally 
attended  to  in  the  formation  of  new  words,  that  no 
confusion  can  arise ;  for  the  word  thus  introduced 
into  a  language  always  contains  its  meaning  in  its 
derivation  and  composition,  except  it  be  such  mere 
cant  as  is  not  meant  to  live  beyond  the  day ;  and 
further,  the  correspondent  word  to  it  may  always 
be  found  in  other  more  perfect  languages,  if  the 
people  who  spoke  that  language  were  alike  conver- 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

sant  with  the  idea,  and  equally  under  the  tempta- 
tion of  employing  some  word  to  signify  it. 

But  a  very  great  number  of  those  words  which 
are  generally  called  new,  are,  in  fact,  some  of  the 
oldest  in  our  language  :  many  of  them  are  extant  in 
the  works  of  our  earliest  authors  ;  and  a  still  greater 
number  float  on  the  popular  voice,  preserved  only 
by  tradition,  till  the  same  things  to  which  they  were 
originally  applied  again  attract  notice,  and  some 
writer,  in  want  of  the  word,  either  ignorantly  or 
wisely,  but  in  either  case  happily,  restores  it  to  its 
proper  place.  Many  of  the  provincial  expressions, 
to  which  Clare  has  been  forced  to  have  recourse, 
are  of  this  description,  forming  part  of  a  large  num- 
ber which  may  be  called  the  unwritten  language  of 
England.  They  were  once,  perhaps,  as  current 
throughout  the  land,  and  are  still  many  of  them  as 
well-sounding  and  significant,  as  any  that  are  sanc- 
tioned by  the  press.  In  the  midland  counties  they 
are  readily  understood  without  a  glossary ;  but,  for 
the  use  of  those  who  are  unaccustomed  to  them,  all 
such  as  are  not  to  be  found  in  Johnson's  Dictionary  . 
will  be  printed  at  the  end,  with  explanations. 

Another  peculiarity  in  Clare's  writing,  which 
may  be  the  occasion  of  some  misunderstanding  to 
those  who  are  critically  nice  in  the  construction  of 
a  sentence,  is  the  indift'erence  with  which  he  regards 


INTRODUCTION.  XVU 

words  as  governing  each  other;  but  this  defect, 
which  arises  from  his  evident  ignorance  of  grammar, 
is  never  so  great  as  to  give  any  real  embarrassment 
to  the  reader*.     An  example  occurs  at  p.  41 : — 

"  Just  so  'twill  fare  with  roe  in  Autumn's  Life," 

instead  of  for  "  the  Autumn  of  Life;"  but  who  can 
doubt  the  sense  ?  And  it  may  be  worth  while  to 
mention  here  another  line,  which  for  the  same  rea- 
son may  be  objected  to  by  some  persons : — 

"  But  still  Hope's  smiles  unpoint  the  thorns  of  Care" 


as  if  he  had  intended  to  say  "  Hope  smiling;"  yet 
as  the  passage  now  stands  it  has  also  great  pro- 
priety, and  the  Poet's  conception  of  the  effect  of 
those  smiles  may  have  been,  that  they  could  blunt 
the  thorns  of  care.  But  Clare,  as  well  as  many 
other  poets,  does  not  regard  language  in  the  same 
way  that  a  logician  does.  He  considers  it  collec- 
tively rather  than  in  detail,  and  paints  up  to  his  mind's 
original  by  mingling  words,  as  a  painter  mixes  his 
colours.  And  without  this  method,  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  convey  to  the  understanding  of  the 
reader   an   adequate  notion   of  some   things,   and 

•  The  irregularity  here  mentioned  was,  from  the  same  cause, 
practised  by  Sliakspeare. — See  Ritson's  note,  Sliaks.  vol,  ii.  p.  106. 
Edit,  'il  vols.  1813. 


XVUl  INTRODUCTION. 

especially  of  the  effects  of  nature,  seen  under  cer- 
tain influences  of  time,  circumstance,  and  colour. 
In  Prose  these  things  are  never  attempted,  unless 
with  great  circumlocution ;  but  Poetry  is  always 
straining  after  them  concisely,  as  they  increase  her 
power  of  giving  pleasure;  and  much  allowance  ought 
to  be  made  if  her  efforts  in  this  way  are  not  always 
successful.  Instances  of  the  free  grouping  of  words 
occur  in  the  Sonnet  to  the  Glow-worm  : — 

"  Tasteful  Illumination  of  the  night ! 

Bright,  scatter'd,  twinkling  star  of  spangled  earth,"  &c. 

And  in  the  following  lines : — 

"  Aside  the  green  hill's  steepy  brow, 

Where  shades  the  oak  its  darksome  bough." 

(p.  81.) 

"  So  have  I  mark'd  the  djing  embers  light, 

With  glimmering  glow  oft  redden  up  again. 
And  sparks  crack'd  brightening  into  life,  in  vain." 

(p.  149.) 

"  Brisk  winds  the  lighten'd  branches  shake. 

By  pattering,  plashing  drops  confess'd  ; 

And,  where  oaks  dripping  shade  the  lake, 

Print  crimpluig  dimples  on  its  breast." 

^    ^        ^  (p.  146.) 

Examples  of  the  use  of  Colour  may  be  seen  in 
the  Sonnets — ^To  the  Primrose,  p.  1S8,  The  Gipsy's 
Evening  Blaze,  p.  191,  A  Scene,  p.  192,  and  in  the 
following  verse : — 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

"  First  sunbeam,  calling  night  away. 

To  see  how  sweet  tiy  summons  seems, 

SpKt  by  the  willow's  wavy  grey, 

And  sweetly  dancin»  on  the  streams." 

(p.  142.) 

The  whole  of  the  Sonnet  to  the  river  Gwash  is  an 
instance  of  it,  down  to  the  line 

"  And  moss  and  ivy  speckling  on  my  eye." 

A  diy  critic  would  call  the  former  passages  re- 
dundant in  epithets  ;  and  the  word  speckling  would 
excite,  perhaps,  his  spleen  in  the  latter :  but  ask 
the  question,  and  you  will  probably  find  that  this 
critic  himself  has  no  eye  for  colour, — that  the  light, 
and  shade,  and  mezzotint  of  a  landscape,  have  no 
charms  for  him, — that  "  his  eye  indeed  is  open, 
but  its  sense  is  shut;"  and  then,  what  dependance 
can  be  placed  upon  his  judgment  in  these  matters  ? 

Clare,  it  is  evident,  is  susceptible  of  extreme 
pleasure  from  the  varied  hues,  forms,  and  combin- 
ations in  nature,  and  what  he  most  enjoys,  he  en- 
deavours to  pourtray  for  the  gratification  of  others. 
He  is  most  thoroughly  the  Poet  as  well  as  the  Child 
of  Nature ;  and,  according  to  his  opportunities,  no 
poet  has  more  completely  devoted  himself  to  her 
service,  studied  her  more  closely,  or  exhibited  so 
many  sketches  of  her  under  new  and  interesting 
appearances.     There  is  some  merit  in  all  this,  for 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

"Wordsworth  asserts,  "  that,  excepting  a  passage  or 
two  in  the  Windsor  Forest  of  Pope,  and  some  de- 
lightful pictures  in  the  Poems  of  Lady  Winchelsea, 
the  Poetry  of  the  period  intervening  between  the 
publication  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  and  the  Seasons 
[60  years],  does  not  contain  a  single  new  image 
of  external  nature."  But  Clare  has  no  idea 
of  excelling  others  in  doing  this.  He  loves  the 
fields,  the  flowers,  "  the  common  air,  the  sun,  the 
skies;"  and,  therefore,  he  writes  about  them.  He 
is  happier  in  the  presence  of  Nature  than  else- 
where. He  looks  as  anxiously  on  her  face  as 
if  she  were  a  living  friend,  whom  he  might  lose ; 
and  hence  he  has  learnt  to  notice  every  change  in 
her  countenance,  and  to  delineate  all  the  delicate 
varieties  of  her  character.  Most  of  his  poems  were 
composed  under  the  immediate  impression  of  this 
feeling,  in  the  fields,  or  on  the  road-sides.  He 
could  not  trust  his  memory,  and  therefore  he 
wrote  them  down  with  a  pencil  on  the  spot,  his 
hat  serving  him  for  a  desk ;  and  if  it  happened 
that  he  had  no  opportunity  soon  after  of  transcrib- 
ing these  imperfect  memorials,  he  could  seldom 
decypher  them,  or  recover  his  first  thoughts.  From 
this  circumstance  several  of  his  poems  are  quite 
lost,  and  others  exist  only  in  fragments.  Of  those 
which  he  had  committed  to  writing,  especially  his 


INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

earlier  pieces,  many  Avere  destroyed  from  another 
circumstance,  which  shews  how  httle  he  expected 
to  please  others  with  them :  from  a  hole  in  the  wall 
of  his  room,  where  he  stuffed  his  manuscripts,  a 
piece  of  paper  was  often  taken  to  hold  the  kettle, 
or  light  the  fire. 

It  is  now  thirteen  years  since  Clare  composed 
his  first  poem :  in  all  that  time  he  has  gone  on 
secretly  cultivating  his  taste  and  talent  for  poetry, 
without  one  word  of  encouragement,  or  the  most 
distant  prospect  of  reward.  That  passion  must 
have  been  originally  very  strong  and  pure,  which 
could  sustain  itself,  for  so  many  years,  through 
want,  and  toil,  and  hopeless  misery.  His  labour 
in  the  fields  through  all  seasons,  it  might  be  thought, 
would  have  disgusted  him  with  those  objects  which 
he  so  much  admired  at  first;  and  his  taste  might 
have  altered  with  his  age :  but  the  foundation  of 
his  regard  was  laid  too  deeply  in  truth  to  be  shaken. 
On  the  contrary,  he  found  delight  in  scenes  which 
no  other  poet  has  thought  of  celebrating.  "  The 
swampy  falls  of  pasture  ground,  and  rushy  spread- 
ing greens,"  "  plashy  streams,"  and  "  weed-beds 
wild  and  rank,"  give  him  as  much  real  transport 
as  common  minds  feel  at  what  are  called  the  most 
romantic  prospects.  And  if  there  were  any  question 
as  to  the  intensity  or  sincerity  of  his  feeling  for 
Poetry   and   Nature,  the  commendation  of  these 


XXU  INTRODUCTION. 

simple,  unthought  of,  and  generally  despised  objects 
would  decide  it. 

Of  the  poems  which  form  the  present  collection 
some  few  were  among  Clare's  earliest  efforts. 
The  Fate  of  Amy  was  begun  when  he  was  fourteen  ; 
Helpstone,  The  Gipsy's  Evening  Blaze,  Reflection 
in  Autumn,  The  Robin,  Noon,  The  Universal 
Epitaph,  and  some  others,  were  written  before  he 
was  seventeen.  The  rest  bear  various  dates,  but 
the  greater  number  are  of  recent  origin.  The 
Village  Funeral  was  written  in  1815;  The  Address 
to  Plenty,  in  December  1817 ;  The  Elegy  on  the 
Ruins  of  Pickworth,  in  181 S.  To  describe  the  oc- 
cupations of  Clare,  we  must  not  say  that  Labour 
and  the  Muse  went  hand  in  hand  :  they  rather  kept 
alternate  watch,  and  when  Labour  was  exhausted 
with  fatigue,  she  "  cheer'd  his  needy  toilings  with 
a  song."  In  a  note  on  this  poem,  Clare  says, 
"  The  Elegy  on  the  Ruins  of  Pickworth  was 
written  one  Sunday  morning,  after  I  had  been  help- 
ing to  dig  the  hole  for  a  lime-kiln,  where  the  many 
fragments  of  mortality  and  perished  ruins  inspired 
me  with  thoughts  of  other  times,  and  warmed  me 
into  song." 

In  the  last  two  years  he  has  written,  What  is 
Life?  The  Fountain,  My  Mary,  To  a  Rosebud, 
Effusion  to  Poesy,  The  Summer  Evening,  Sum- 
mer Morning,    First  of  May,  The  Dawnings  of 


INTRODUCTION.  Xxiii 

Genius,  The  Contrast,  Dolly's  Mistake,  Harvest 
Morning,  The  Poet's  Wish,  Crazy  Nell,  and 
several  other  pieces,  with  almost  all  the  Sonnets. 
One  of  the  last  productions  of  Clare's  fancy  is  the 
following  Song,  which,  as  it  came  too  late  to  be  in- 
serted in  its  proper  place  in  this  volume,  may  as 
well  appear  here,  where  it  fitly  closes  the  chronicle 
of  his  Poems. 

THE  MEETING. 

Here  we  meet,  too  soon  to  part, 
Here  to  leave  will  raise  a  smart. 
Here  I'll  press  thee  to  my  heart, 

Where  none  have  place  above  thee  : 
Here  I  vow  to  love  thee  well. 
And  could  words  unseal  the  spell. 
Had  but  language  strength  to  tell, 

I'd  say  how  much  I  love  thee. 

Here,  the  rose  that  decks  thy  door. 
Here,  the  thorn  that  spreads  thy  bow'r. 
Here,  the  willow  on  the  moor, 

The  birds  at  rest  above  thee, 
Had  they  light  of  life  to  see, 
Sense  of  soul  like  thee  and  me 
Soon  might  each  a  witness  be 

How  doatingly  I  love  thee. 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

By  the  night-sky's  purple  ether, 
And  by  even's  sweetest  weather. 
That  oft  has  blest  us  both  together, — 

The  moon  that  shines  above  thee. 
And  shews  thy  beauteous  cheek  so  blooming, 
And  by  pale  age's  winter  coming, 
The  charms,  and  casualties  of  woman, 

I  will  for  ever  love  thee. 

This  song  is  written  nearly  in  the  metre  of  one  by 
Burns,  "  O  were  I  on  Parnassus'  Hill,"  and  the 
subject  is  the  same,  but  in  the  execution  they  are 
quite  different.  Clare  has  a  great  delight  in  try- 
ing to  run  races  with  other  men,  and  unluckily  this 
cannot  always  be  attempted  without  subjecting  him 
to  the  charge  of  imitating  ;  but  he  will  be  found  free 
from  this  imputation  in  all  the  best  parts  of  his 
poetry,  and  in  the  present  instance  it  may  be  worth 
while  comparing  him  with  his  prototype,  to  see  how 
little  he  stands  in  need  of  such  assistance.  The 
propensity  to  emulate  another  is  a  youthful  emotion, 
and  in  his  friendless  state  it  afforded  him  an  obvi- 
ous, and,  perhaps,  the  only  mode  of  endeavouring 
to  ascertain  what  kind  and  degree  of  ability  he  pos- 
sessed as  a  Poet. 

This   song,   "  The   Meeting,"  was  written   at 
Ilelpstone,  where  Clare  is  again  residing  with  his 


INTRODUCTION.  XXV 

parents,  working  for  any  one  who  will  employ  hira, 
but  without  any  regular  occupation.  He  had  an 
engagement  during  the  greater  part  of  the  year  with 
Mr.  AVilders,  of  Bridge-Casterton,  two  miles  north 
of  Stamford;  where  the  river  Gwash,  which  crosses 
the  road,  gave  him  a  subject  for  one  of  his  Sonnets, 
(p.  203.)  His  wages  were  nine  shillings  a  week, 
and  his  food;  out  of  which  he  had  to  pay  one 
shilling  and  sixpence  a  week  for  a  bed,  it  being  im- 
possible that  he  could  return  every  night  to  Help- 
stone,  a  distance  of  nine  miles :  but  at  the  beginning 
of  November,  his  employer  proposed  to  allow  him 
only  seven  shillings  a  week,  on  which  he  quitted 
his  service  and  returned  home. 

It  was  an  accident  which  led  to  the  publication 
of  these  Poems.  In  December  1818,  Mr.  Edward 
Drurj%  Bookseller,  of  Stamford,  met  by  chance 
with  the  Sonnet  to  the  Setting  Sun,  written  on  a 
piece  of  paper  in  which  a  letter  had  been  wrapped 
up,  and  signed  J.  C  Having  ascertained  the  name 
and  residence  of  the  writer,  he  went  to  Helpstone, 
where  he  saw  some  other  poems  with  which  he  was 
much  pleased.  At  his  request,  Clare  made  a 
collection  of  the  pieces  he  had  written,  and  added 
some  others  to  them.  They  were  then  sent  to 
London,  and  the  publishers  selected  those  which 
form  the  present  volume.     They  have  been  printed 

c 


XXvi  INTRODUCTION. 

with  the  usual  corrections  only  of  orthography  and 
grammar,  in  such  instances  as  allowed  of  its  being 
done  without  changing  the  words  :  the  proofs  were 
tlien  revised  by  Clare,  and  a  few  alterations  were 
made  at  his  desire.  The  original  MSS.  may  be  seen 
at  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey's. 

The  Author  and  his  Poems  are  now  before  the 
public ;  and  its  decision  will  speedily  fix  the  fate  of 
the  one,  and,  ultimately,  that  of  the  other:    but 
whatever  be  the  result  to  either,  this  will  at  least 
be  granted,  that  no  Poet  of  our  country  has  shewn 
greater  ability,  under  circumstances  so  hostile  to  its 
developement.     And  all  this  is  found  here  without 
any  of  those  distressing  and  revolting  alloys,  which 
too  often  debase  the  native  worth  of  genius,  and 
make  him  who  was  gifted  with  powers  to  command 
admiration,  live  to  be  the  object  of  contempt  or 
pity.     The  lower  the  condition  of  its  possessor,  the 
more  unfavourable,  generally,  has  been  the  effect  of 
genius  on  his  life.     That  this  has  not  been  the  case 
with  Clare  may,  perhaps,  be  imputed  to  the  abso- 
lute depression  of  his  fortune.     It  is  certain  that  he 
bas  not  had  the  opportunity  hitherto  of  being  injured 
by  prosperity;  and  that  he  may  escape  in  future,  it 
is  hoped  that  those  persons  who  intend  to  shew 
him  kindness,  will  not  do  it  suddenly  or  partially, 
but  so  as  it  will  yield  him  permanent  benefit.     Yet 


INTRODUCTION.  XXVll 

when  we  hear  the  consciousness  of  possessing  talent, 
and  the  natural  irritability  of  the  poetic  temperament, 
pleaded  in  extenuation  of  the  follies  and  vices 
of  men  in  high  life,  let  it  be  accounted  no  mean 
praise  to  such  a  man  as  Clare,  that,  with  all  the 
excitements  of  their  sensibility  in  his  station,  he  has 
preserved  a  fair  character,  amid  dangers  which  pre- 
sumption did  not  create,  and  difficulties  which  dis- 
cretion could  not  avoid.  In  the  real  troubles  of 
life,  when  they  are  not  brought  on  by  the  miscon- 
duct of  the  individual,  a  strong  mind  acquires  the 
power  of  righting  itself  after  each  attack,  and  this 
philosophy,  not  to  call  it  by  a  better  name,  Clare 
possesses.  If  the  expectations  of  "  better  life," 
which  he  cannot  help  indulging,  should  all  be  dis- 
appointed, by  the  coldness  with  which  this  volume 
may  be  received,  he  can 

" put  up  with  distress,  and  be  content." 

(p.  4) 

In  one  of  his  letters  he  says,  "  If  my  hopes 
don't  succeed,  the  hazard  is  not  of  much  conse- 
quence :  if  I  fall,  I  am  advanced  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  my  low  condition  :  if  I  sink  for  want  of 
friends,  my  old  friend  Necessity  is  ready  to  help 
me,  as  before.  It  was  never  my  fortune  as  yet  to 
meet  advancement  from  friendship:  my  fate  has 
ever  been  hard  labour  among  the  most  vulgar  and 


XXVIU  INTRODUCTION. 

lowest  conditions  of  men;  and  very  small  is  the 
pittance  hard  labour  allows  nie,  though  I  always 
toil'd  even  beyond  my  strength  to  obtain  it." — To 
see  a  man  of  talent  struggling  under  great  adversity 
with  such  a  spirit,  must  surely  excite  in  every  gene- 
rous heart  the  wish  to  befriend  him.  But  if  it  be 
otherwise,  and  he  should  be  doomed  to  remediless 
misery, 

"  Why  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep. 

The  hart  ungalled  play ; 
For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must  sleep, — 

Thus  runs  the  world  away." 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

Page 

Helpstone  1 

Address  to  a  Lark,  singing  in  Winter 12 

Tlie  Fate  of  Amy.— A  Tale 16 

Evening 30 

What  is  Life?    35 

On  a  lost  Greyhound  lying  on  the  Snow 37 

A  Reflection  in  Autumn    41 

The  Robin 42 

Kpigram     44 

Address  to  Plenty,  in  Winter    45 

The  Fountain ^  59 

To  an  Insignificant  J'lower,  obscurely  blooming  in  a  lonely 

Wild 62 

Elegy  on  the  Ruins  of  Pickworth,  Rutlandshire.     Hastily 

composed,  and  written  with  a  Pencil  on  the  Spot. ...  65 

Noon 69 

The  Village  Funeral 73 

Early  Rising 79 

My  Mary 82 

I'o  a  I^ose-bud  in  humble  Life 88 


XXX  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Tlie  Universal  Epitaph 91 

Familiar  Epistle,  to  a  Friend 92 

The  Harvest  Morning    98 

On  Beauty , 103 

On  an  Infant's  Grave 104 

Dolly's  Mistake ;  or,  the  Ways  of  the  Wake 103 

On  Cruelty     Ill 

On  the  Death  of  a  beautiful  young  Lady 114 

Falling  Leaves   116 

Tlie  Contrast  of  Beauty  and  Virtue 118 

To  an  April  Daisy 120 

To  Hope     122 

An  Effusion  to  Poesy,  on  receiving  a  Damp  from  a  genteel 
Opinionist  in  Poetry,  of  some  sway,  as  I  am  told,  in 

the  literary  World 123 

The  Poet's  Wish    125 

Summer  Evening 1 30 

Summer  Morning 1 39 

Dawnings  of  Genius I47 

To  a  cold  Beauty,  insensible  of  Love     150 

Patty 152 

On  Youth 154 

The  Adieu j55 

Crazy  Nell. — A  true  Story   208 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

Upon  the  Plain. — A  Ballad 159 

The  Country  Girl j  53 

Patty  of  the  Vale 165 


CONTENTS.  XXXI 

Page 

Sad  was  the  Day   167 

Friend  Lubin 169 

To-day  the  Fox  must  Die. — A  Hunting  Song 170 

My  last  Shilling     173 

Her  I  Love    176 

My  Love,  thou  art  a  Nosegay  sweet 178 

My  Love's  like  a  Lily    179 

True  Love 181 

The  First  of  May.— A  Ballad   182 


SONNETS. 

The  Setting  Sun 187 

The  Primrose 188 

Christian  Faith 189 

The  Moon 190 

The  Gipsy's  Evening  Blaze 191 

A  Scene J  92 

To  the  Glow-worm 193 

The  Ant 194 

To  Hope 195 

A  Winter  Scene 196 

Evening 197 

To  the  Winds 198 

Native  Scenes    199 

To  a  favourite  Tree    200 

Approach  of  Spring 201 

Summer 202 

The  River  Gwash 203 


XXXll  CONTENTS. 

Pane 

To  Religion    204 

Anxiety 205 

Expectation    205 

To  my  Oaten  Reed    207 

Glossary    , 217 


POEMS. 


POEMS. 


HELPSTONE. 


Hail,  humble  Helpstone  !  where  thy  vallies  spread, 
And  thy  mean  village  lifts  its  lowly  head ; 
Unknown  to  grandeur,  and  unknown  to  fame; 
No  minstrel  boasting  to  advance  thy  name  : 
Unletter'd  spot!  unheard  in  poets'  song; 
Where  bustling  labour  drives  the  hours  along ; 
Where  dawning  genius  never  met  the  day; 
Where  useless  ignorance  slumbers  life  away ; 
Unknown  nor  heeded,  where,  low  genius  tries 
Above  the  vulgar  and  the  vain  to  rise. 


4  HELPSTONE. 

Mysterious  Fate !  who  can  on  thee  depend  ? 
Thou  opes  the  hour,  but  hides  its  doubtful  end  : 
In  Fancy's  view  the  joys  have  long  appear'd, 
Where  the  glad  heart  by  laughing  plenty's  cheer'd; 
And  Fancy's  eyes  as  oft,  as  vainly,  fill ; 
At  first  but  doubtful,  and  as  doubtful  still. 
So  little  birds,  in  winter's  frost  and  snow, 
Doom'd,  like  to  me,  want's  keener  frost  to  know ; 
Searching  for  food  and  "  better  life,"  in  vain, 
Each  hopeful  track  the  yielding  snows  retain ; 
First  on  the  ground  each  fairy  dream  pursue. 
Though  sought  in  vain ;  yet  bent  on  higher  view. 
Still  chirp,  and  hope,  and  wipe  each  glossy  bill ; 
And  undiscourag'd,  undishearten'd  still, 
Hop  on  the  snow-cloth'd  bough,  and  chirp  again. 
Heedless  of  naked  shade  and  frozen  plain  : 
Till,  like  to  me,  these  victims  of  the  blast. 
Each  foolish,  fruitless  wish  resign'd  at  last. 
Are  glad  to  seek  the  place  from  whence  they  went 
And  put  up  with  distress,  and  be  content. 


HELPSTONE.  :> 

Hail,  scenes  obscure !  so  near  and  dear  to  me, 
The  church,  the  brook,  the  cottage,  and  the  tree  : 
Still  shall  obscurity  rehearse  the  song, 
And  hum  your  beauties  as  I  stroll  along. 
Dear,  native  spot !  which  length  of  time  endears ; 
The  sweet  retreat  of  twenty  lingering  years, 
And,  oh  !  those  years  of  infancy  the  scene  ; 
Those  dear  delights,  where  once  they  all  have  been  ; 
Those  golden  days,  long  vanish'd  from  the  plain ; 
Those  sports,  those  pastimes,  now  belov'd  in  vain ; 
When  happy  youths  in  pleasure's  circle  ran, 
Nor  thought  what  pains  awaited  future  man ; 
No  other  thought  employing,  or  employ 'd. 
But  how  to  add  to  happiness  enjoy 'd  : 
Each  morning  wak'd  with  hopes  before  unknown. 
And  eve,  possessing,  made  each  wish  their  own ; 
The  day  gone  by  left  no  pursuit  undone. 
Nor  one  vain  wish,  save  that  it  went  too  soon  ; 
Each  sport,  each  pastime,  ready  at  their  call. 
As  soon  as  wanted  they  possess'd  them  all : 


6  HELPSTONE. 

These  joys,  all  known  in  happy  infancy, 

And  all  I  ever  knew,  were  spent  in  thee. 

And  who,  but  loves  to  view  where  these  were  past  ? 

And  who  that  views,  but  loves  them  to  the  last  ? 

Feels  his  heart  warm  to  view  his  native  place, 

A  fondness  still  those  past  delights  to  trace  ? 

The  vanish'd  green  to  mourn,  the  spot  to  see 

Where  flourish'd  many  a  bush  and  many  a  tree  ? 

Wliere  once  the  brook,  for  now  the  brook  is  gone, 

O'er  pebbles  dimpHng  sweet  went  whimpering  on ; 

Oft  on  whose  oaken  plank  I've  wondering  stood, 

(That  led  a  pathway  o'er  its  gentle  flood), 

To  see  the  beetles  their  wild  mazes  run, 

With  jetty  jackets  glittering  in  the  sun  : 

So  apt  and  ready  at  their  reels  they  seem. 

So  true  the  dance  is  figur'd  on  the  stream. 

Such  justness,  such  correctness  they  impart. 

They  seem  as  ready  as  if  taught  by  art. 

In  those  past  days,  for  then  I  lov'd  the  shade. 

How  oft  I've  sigh'd  at  alterations  made ; 


HELPSTONE. 

To  see  the  woodman's  cruel  axe  employ'cl, 
A  tree  beheaded,  or  a  bush  destroy'd  : 
Nay  e'en  a  post,  old  standard,  or  a  stone 
Moss'd  o'er  by  age,  and  branded  as  her  own. 
Would  m  my  mind  a  strong  attachment  gain, 
A  fond  desire  that  there  they  might  remain ; 
And  all  old  favourites,  fond  taste  approves, 
Griev'd  me  at  heart  to  witness  their  removes. 


t 


Thou  far  tied  pasture,  long  evanish'd  scene 
Where  nature's  freedom  spread  the  flow'ry  green ; 
AVhere  golden  kingcups  open'd  into  view ; 
Where  silver  daisies  in  profusion  grew ; 
And,  tottering,  hid  amidst  those  brighter  gems, 
Where  silken  grasses  bent  their  tiny  stems ; 
Where  the  pale  lilac,  mean  and  lowly,  grew. 
Courting  in  vain  each  gazer's  heedless  view ; 
Wliile  cowslips,  sweetest  flowers  upon  the  plain. 
Seemingly  bow'd  to  shun  the  hand,  in  vain  : 


8  HELPSTONE. 

Wliere  lowing  oxen  roam'd  to  feed  at  large. 
And  bleating  there  the  shepherd's  woolly  charge, 
Whose  constant  calls  thy  echoing  vallies  cheer'd, 
Thy  scenes  adom'd,  and  rural  life  endear'd ; 
No  calls  of  hunger  pity's  feelings  wound, 
'Twas  wanton  plenty  rais'd  the  joyful  sound  : 
Thy  grass  in  plenty  gave  the  wish'd  supply, 
Ere  sultry  suns  had  wak'd  the  troubling  fly ; 
Then  blest  retiring,  by  thy  bounty  fed, 
They  sought  thy  shades,  and  found  an  easy  bed. 

But  now,  alas !  those  scenes  exist  no  more ; 
The  pride  of  life  with  thee,  like  mine,  is  o'er. 
Thy  pleasing  spots  to  which  fond  memory  clings, 
Sweet  cooling  shades,  and  soft  refrpshing  springs. 
And  though  fate's  pleas'd  to  lay  their  beauties  by 
In  a  dark  corner  of  obscurity, 
As  fair  and  sweet  they  bloom'd  thy  plains  among. 
As  bloom  those  Edens  by  the  poets  sung ; 


HELPSTONE. 


1» 


Now  all  laid  waste  by  desolation's  hand, 
Whose  cursed  weapon  levels  half  the  land. 
Oh  !  who  could  see  my  dear  green  willows  fall, 
What  feeling  heart,  but  dropt  a  tear  for  all  ? 
Accursed  Wealth !   o'er-bounding  human  laws. 
Of  every  evil  thou  remain'st  the  cause. 
Victims  of  want,  those  wretches  such  as  me, 
Too  truly  lay  their  wretchedness  to  thee  : 
Thou  art  the  bar  that  keeps  from  being  fed. 
And  thine  our  loss  of  labour  and  of  bread ; 
Thou  art  the  cause  that  levels  every  tree. 
And  woods  bow  down  to  clear  a  way  for  thee. 

Sweet  rest  and  peace !  ye  dear,  departed  charms. 
Which  industry  once  cherish'd  in  her  arms  ; 
When  ease  and  plenty,  known  but  now  to  few, 
Were  known  to  all,  and  labour  had  its  due ; 
When  mirth  and  toil,  companions  through  the  day, 
Made  labour  light,  and  pass'd  the  hours  away ; 

B  5 


10  HELPSTONE. 

When  nature  made  the  fields  so  dear  to  me, 
Thin  scattering  many  a  bush  and  many  a  tree ; 
Where  the  wood  minstrel  sweetly  join'd  among, 
And  cheer'd  my  needy  toilings  with  a  song  ; 
Ye  perish'd  spots,  adieu !  ye  ruin'd  scenes. 
Ye  well  known  pastures,  oft  frequented  greens  ! 
Though  now  no  more,  fond  Memory's  pleasing  pains, 
Within  her  breast  your  every  scene  retains. 
Scarce  did  a  bush  spread  its  romantic  bower, 
To  shield  the  lazy  shepherd  from  the  shower ; 
Scarce  did  a  tree  befriend  the  chattering  pye. 
By  lifting  up  its  head  so  proud  and  high ; 
No,  not  a  secret  spot  did  then  remain. 
Throughout  each  spreading  wood  and  winding  plain, 
But,  in  those  days,  my  presence  once  possess'd, 
The  snail-horn  searching,  or  the  mossjf  nest. 

Oh,  happy  Eden  of  those  golden  years 
Which  memory  cherishes,  and  use  endears, 


HELPSTONE.  11 

Thou  dear,  beloved  spot !  may  it  be  thine 

To  add  a  comfort  to  my  life's  decline, 

^VTien  this  vain  world  and  I  have  nearly  done. 

And  Time's  drain'd  glass  has  little  left  to  run. 

When  all  the  hopes,  that  charm'd  me  once,  are  o'er, 

To  warm  my  soul  in  extacy  no  more. 

By  disappointments  prov'd  a  foolish  cheat. 

Each  endmg  bitter,  and  beginning  sweet ; 

When  weary  age  the  grave,  a  rescue,  seeks. 

And  prints  its  image  on  my  wrinkled  cheeks,— 

Those  charms  of  youth,  that  I  again  may  see, 

May  it  be  mine  to  meet  my  end  in  thee ; 

And,  as  reward  for  all  my  troubles  past. 

Find  one  hope  true — to  die  at  home  at  last ! 


12 


ADDRESS  TO  A  LARK, 

SINGING  IN  WINTER. 


Ay,  little  Larky !  what's  the  reason, 
Singing  thus  in  winter  season  ? 
Nothing,  surely,  can  be  pleasing 

To  make  thee  sing ; 
For  I  see  nought  but  cold  and  freezing. 

And  feel  its  sting. 

Perhaps,  all  done  with  silent  mourning. 
Thou  think'st  that  summer  is  returning, 
And  this  the  last,  cold,  frosty  morning. 

To  chill  thy  breast ; 
If  so,  I  pity  thy  discerning : 

And  so  I've  guess'd. 


ADDRESS  TO  A  LARK.  13 

Poor,  little  Songster !  vainly  cheated  ; 
Stay,  leave  thy  singing  uncompleted ; 
Drop  where  thou  wast  beforehand  seated, 

In  thy  warm  nest ; 
Nor  let  vain  wishes  be  repeated, 

But  sit  at  rest. 

Tis  winter  ;  let  the  cold  content  thee : 
Wish  after  nothing  till  its  sent  thee. 
For  disappointments  will  torment  thee, 

Which  will  be  thine  : 
I  know  it  well,  for  I've  had  plenty 

Misfortunes  mine. 

Advice,  sweet  Warbler !  don't  despise  it : 
None  know  what's  what,  but  he  that  tries  it; 
And  then  he  well  knows  how  to  prize  it, 

And  so  do  I : 
Thy  case,  with  mine  I  sympathise  it,  

With  many  a  sigh. 


14  ADDRESS  TO  A  LARK. 

Vain  Hope  !  of  tliee  I've  had  my  portion ; 
•  Mere  flimsy  cobweb  !   changing  ocean  ! 
That  flits  the  scene  at  every  motion. 

And  still  eggs  on, 
With  sweeter  view,  and  stronger  notion 

To  dwell  upon : 

Yes,  I've  dwelt  long  on  idle  fancies, 
Strange  and  uncommon  as  romances. 
On  future  luck  my  noddle  dances, 

What  I  would  be ; 
But,  ah !  when  future  time  advances, 

All's  blank  to  me. 

Now  twenty  years  I've  pack'd  behind  me, 
Since  hope's  deluding  tongue  inclin'd  me 
To  fuss  myself.     But,  Warbler,  mind  me. 

It's  all  a  sham ; 
And  twenty  more's  as  like  to  find  me 

Just  as  I  am. 


y 


ADDRESS  TO  A  LARK.  15 

I'm  poor  enough,  there's  plenty  knows  it ; 
Obscure ;  how  dull,  my  scribbling  shows  it : 
Then  sure  'twas  madness  to  suppose  it, 

What  I  was  at, 
To  gain  preferment !  there  I'll  close  it : 

So  mum  for  that. 

Let  mine,  sweet  Bird,  then  be  a  warning : 

Advice  in  season  don't  be  scorning, 

But  wait  till  Spring's  first  days  are  dawning 

To  glad  and  cheer  thee ; 
And  then,  sweet  Minstrel  of  the  morning, 

I'd  wish  to  hear  thee. 


16 


THE  FATE  OF  AMY. 

A   TALE. 


Beneath  a  sheltering  wood's  warm  side, 

Where  many  a  tree  expands 
Its  branches  o'er  the  neighbouring  brook, 

A  ruin'd  cottage  stands  : 

Though  now  left  desolate,  and  lost 

Its  origin,  and  all ; 
Owls  hooting  from  the  roofless  walls, 

Rejoicing  in  its  fall ; 

A  time  was  once,  remembrance  knows. 
Though  now  the  time's  gone  by. 

When  that  was  seen  to  flourish  gay. 
And  pleasing  to  the  eye. 


THE  FATE  OF  AMY  17 

On  that  same  ground  the  brambles  hide, 

And  stinking  weeds  o'errun, 
An  orchard  bent  its  golden  boughs, 

And  redden'd  in  the  sun. 

Yon  nettles  where  they're  left  to  spread, 

There  once  a  garden  smil'd ; 
And  lovely  was  the  spot  to  view, 

Though  now  so  lost  and  wild : 

And  where  the  sickly  alder  loves 

To  top  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And  ivy's  kind  encroaching  care 

Delays  the  tottering  fall ; 

There  once  a  mother's  only  joy, 

A  daughter  lovely,  fair, 
As  ever  bloom'd  beneath  the  sun. 

Was  nurs'd  and  cherish'd  there. 


18  THE  FATE  OF  AMY. 

The  cottage  then  was  known  around ; 

The  neighbouring  village  swains 
Would  often  wander  by  to  view 

That  charmer  of  the  plains. 

Where  softest  blush  of  roses  wild. 
And  hawthorn's  fairest  blow. 

But  meanly  serve  to  paint  her  cheek, 
And  bosom's  rival  snow ; 

The  loveliest  blossom  of  the  plains. 

The  artless  Amy  prov'd ; 
In  nature's  sweetest  charms  adorn'd, 

Those  charms  by  all  belov'd. 

Sweet  Innocence  !  the  beauty's  thine 

That  every  bosom  warms. 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  liv'd  alone 

A  stranger  to  her  charms. 


THE  FATE  OF  AMY.  19 

Unmov'd  the  praise  of  swains  she  heard, 

Nor  proud  at  their  despair ; 
But  thought  they  scoff'd  her  when  they  prais'd ; 

And  knew  not  she  was  fair. 

Nor  did  she  for  the  joys  of  youth 

Forsake  her  mother's  side, 
Who  then  by  age  and  pain  infirm'd, 

On  her  for  help  relied. 

No  tenderer  mother  to  a  child 

Throughout  the  world  could  be ; 
And,  in  return,  no  daughter  prov'd 

More  dutiful  than  she. 

The  pains  of  age  she  sympathiz'd. 

And  sooth'd,  and  wish'd  to  share  : 
In  short,  the  aged,  helpless  dame 

Was  Amy's  only  care. 


20  THE  FATE  OF  AMY. 

But  age  had  pains,  and  they  were  all : 
Life's  cares  they  little  knew ; 

Its  billows  ne'er  encompass'd  them. 
They  waded  smoothly  through. 

The  tender  father,  now  no  more, 
Did  for  them  both  provide ; 

The  wealth  his  industry  had  gain'd, 
All  wants  to  come  supplied. 

Kind  heaven  upon  their  labours  smil'd ; 

Industry  gave  increase ; 
The  cottage  was  contentment's  own 

Abode  of  health  and  peace. 

Alas !  the  tongue  of  Fate  is  seal'd. 

And  kept  for  ever  dumb  : 
To-morrow's  met  with  blinded  eyes ; 
We  know  not  what's  to  come. 


THE  FATE  OF  AMY.  2 1 

Blithe  as  the  lark,  as  cricket  gay 

That  chirrup'd  on  the  hearth, 
This  Sun  of  Beauty's  time  was  spent 

In  inoffensive  mirth. 

Meek  as  the  lambs  that  throng'd  her  door, 

As  innocent  as  they. 
Her  hours  pass'd  on,  and  charms  improv'd 

With  each  succeeding  day. 

So,  smiling  on  the  sunny  plain. 

The  lovely  daisies  blow. 
Unconscious  of  the  careless  foot 

That  lays  their  beauty  low. 

So  blooms  the  lily  of  the  vale ; 

(Ye  beauties,  oh,  be  wise  !) 
Untimely  blasts  o'ertake  its  bloom, 

It  withers,  and  it  dies. 


2'2  THE  FATE  OF  AMY. 

The  humble  cottage  lonely  stood 
Far  from  the  neighbouring  vill ; 

Its  church,  that  topp'd  the  willow  groves. 
Lay  far  upon  the  hill : 

Which  made  all  company  desir'd. 

And  welcome  to  the  dame ; 
And  oft  to  tell  the  village  news, 

The  neighbouring  gossips  came. 

Young  Edward  mingled  with  the  rest : 

An  artful  swain  was  he, 
Who  laugh'd,  and  told  his  merry  jests  ; 

For  custom  made  him  free : 

And  oft  with  Amy  to^d  and  play'd, 

While,  harmless  as  the  dove, 
Her  artless,  unsuspecting  heart 

But  little  thought  of  love. 


THE  FATE  OF  AMY. 

But  frequent  visits  gain'd  esteem. 
Each  time  of  longer  stay; 

And  custom  did  his  name  endear  :— 
He  stole  her  heart  away.' 

So  fairest  flowers  adorn  the  wild ; 

And  most  endanger'd  stand 
The  soonest  seen, — a  certain  prey 

To  some  destroying  hand. 

Her  choice  was  fix'd  on  him  alone ; 

The  rest  but  vainly  strove  : 
And  worse  than  all  the  rest  is  he ; 

But  blind  the  eyes  of  love. 

Of  him  full  many  a  maid  complain'd. 

The  lover  of  an  hour, 
That  like  the  ever  changing  bee, 

Sipp'd  sweets  from  every  flower. 


34  THE  FATE  OF  AMY. 

Alas !  those  slighted  pains  are  small, 

If  all  such  maidens  know ; 
But  she  was  fair,  and  he  design'd 

To  work  her  further  woe. 

Her  innocence  his  bosom  fir'd, 

So  long'd  to  be  enjoy'd; 
And  he,  to  gain  his  wish'd-for  ends, 

Each  subtle  art  employ'd. 

Ah !  he  employed  his  subtle  arts, 

Alas,  too  sad  to  tell ; 
The  winning  ways  which  he  employed, 

Succeeded  but  too  well. 

So  artless,  innocent,  and  young, 

So  ready  to  believe ; 
A  stranger  to  the  world  was  she, 

And  easy  to  deceive. 


THE  FATE  OF  AMY.  25 

Ah !  now  farewel  to  beauty's  boast, 

Charms  so  admir'd  before ; 
Now  innocence  has  lost  its  sweets. 

Her  beauties  bloom  no  more. 

The  flowers  the  sultry  summer  kills. 

Spring's  milder  suns  restore ; 
But  innocence,  that  fickle  charm, 

Blooms  once,  and  blooms  no  more. 

The  swains  who  lov'd,  no  more  admire. 

Their  hearts  no  beauty  warms ; 
And  maidens  triumph  in  her  fall, 

That  envied  once  her  charms. 

Lost  was  that  sweet  simplicity; 

Her  eye's  bright  lustre  fled; 
And  o'er  her  cheeks,  where  roses  bloom'd, 

A  sickly  paleness  spread. 

c 


26  THE  FATE  OF  AMY. 

So  fades  the  flower  before  its  time, 
Where  canker-worms  assail ; 

So  droops  the  bud  upon  its  stem. 
Beneath  the  sickly  gale. 

The  mother  saw  the  sudden  change, 
Where  health  so  lately  smil'd ; 

Too  much — and,  oh !  suspecting  more, 
Grew  anxious  for  her  child. 

And  all  the  kindness  in  her  power, 

The  tender  mother  shows ; 
In  hopes  such  kindly  means  would  make 

Her  fearless  to  disclose. 

And  oft  she  hinted,  if  a  crime, 
Through  ignorance  beguil'd — 

Not  to  conceal  the  crime  in  fear, 
For  none  should  wrong  her  child : 


THE  FATE  OF  AMY.  27 

Or,  if  the  rose  that  left  her  cheek 

Was  banish'd  by  disease, 
"  Fear  God,  my  child !  "  she  oft  would  say.. 

"  And  you  may  hope  for  ease." 

And  still  she  pray'd,  and  still  had  hopes 

There  was  no  injury  done ; 
And  still  advis'd  the  ruin'd  girl, 

The  world's  deceit  to  shun. 

And  many  a  cautionary  tale 

Of  hapless  maiden's  fate, 
From  trusting  man,  to  warn  her,  told; 

But  told,  alas !  too  late. 

A  tender  mother's  painful  cares, 

In  vain  the  loss  supply ; 
The  wide-mouth'd  world,  fts  sport  and  scorn 

Than  meet,  she'd  sooner  die. 


28  THE  FATE  OF  AMY. 

Advice  but  aggravated  woe ; 

And  ease,  an  empty  sound ; 
No  one  could  ease  the  pains  she  felt. 

But  he  vrho  gave  the  wound. 

And  he,  wild  youth,  had  left  her  now, 

Unfeeling  as  the  stone : 
Fair  maids,  beware,  lest  careless  ways 

Make  Amy's  fate  your  own. 

Ill-fated  girl !  too  late  she  found. 

As  but  too  many  find, 
False  Edward's  love  as  light  as  down, 

And  vows  as  fleet  as  wind. 

But  one  hope's  left,  and  that  she  sought. 
To  hide  approaching  shame ; 

And  Pity,  while  she  drops  a  tear. 
Forbears  the  rest  to  name. 


THE  FATE  OF  AMY.  29 

The  widow'd  mother,  though  so  old, 

And  ready  to  depart, 
Was  not  ordain'd  to  live  her  time ; 

The  sad  news  broke  her  heart. 

Borne  down  beneath  a  weight  of  years, 

And  all  the  pains  they  gave. 
But  little  add^  weight  requir'd 

To  crush  her  in  the  grave. 

The  strong  oak  braves  the  rudest  wind ; 

While,  to  the  breeze,  as  well 
The  sickly,  aged  willow  falls, — 

And  so  the  mother  fell. 

Beside  the  pool  the  willow  bends. 

The  dew-bent  daisy  weeps  ; 
And  where  the  turfy  hillock  swells, 

The  luckless  Amy  sleeps. 


30 


EVENING. 


Now  grey-ey'd  hazy  Eve's  begun 

To  shed  her  balmy  dew, 
Insects  no  longer  fear  the  sun, 

But  come  in  open  view. 

Now  buzzing,  with  unwelcome  din, 
The  heedless  beetle  bangs 

Against  the  cow-boy's  dinner  tin, 
That  o'er  his  shoulder  hangs. 

And  on  he  keeps  in  heedless  pat. 
Till,  quite  enrag'd,  the  boy 

Pulls  off  his  weather-beaten  hat, 
Resolving  to  destroy. 


EVENING. 

Yet  thoughtless  that  he  wiong'd  the  clown. 

By  blows  he'll  not  be  driven, 
But  buzzes  on,  till  batter'd  down 

For  unmeant  injury  given. 

Now  from  each  hedge-row  fearless  peep 

The  slowly-pacing  snails, 
Betraying  their  meand'ring  creep, 

In  silver-slimy  trails. 

The  dew-worms  too  in  couples  start. 

But  leave  their  holes  in  fear ; 
For  in  a  moment  they  will  part. 

If  aught  approaches  near. 

The  owls  mope  out,  and  scouting  bats 

Begin  their  giddy  round ; 
While  countless  swarms  of  dancing  gnats 

Each  water-pudge  surround. 


SI 


32  EVENING. 

And  'side  yon  pool,  as  smooth  as  glass. 

Reflecting  every  cloud, 
Securely  hid  among  the  grass, 

The  crickets  chirrup  loud. 

That  rural  call,  "  Come  mulls!  come  mulls!" 

From  distant  pasture  grounds, 
All  noises  now  to  silence  lulls, 

In  soft  and  ushering  sounds ; 

While  echoes  weak,  from  hill  to  hill 

Their  dying  sounds  deplore, 
That  whimper  faint  and  fainter  still , 

Till  they  are  heard  no  more. 

The  breezes,  once  so  cool  and  brief. 

At  Eve's  approach  all  died ; 
N  one's  left  to  make  the  aspen  leaf 

Twirl  up  its  hoary  side. 


EVENING.  33 

But  breezes  all  are  useless  now ; 

The  hazy  dun,  that  spreads 
Her  moist'ning  dew  on  every  bough, 

Sufficient  coolness  sheds. 

The  flowers,  reviving  from  the  ground, 

Perk  up  again  and  peep. 
While  many  diflferent  tribes  around 

Are  shutting  up  to  sleep. 

« 
Now  let  me,  hid  in  cultur'd  plain. 

Pursue  my  evening  walk, 

Where  each  way  beats  the  nodding  grain. 

Aside  the  narrow  baulk ; 

While  fairy  visions  intervene. 

Creating  dread  surprize, 

From  distant  objects  dimly  seen, 

That  catch  the  doubtful  eyes. 

C5 


34  EVENING, 

And  fairies  now,  no  doubt,  unseen. 

In  silent  revels  sup ; 
With  dew-drop  bumpers  toast  their  queen. 

From  crow-flower's  golden  cup. 

Although  about  these  tiny  things 

Folks  make  so  much  ado ; 
I  never  heed  the  darksome  rings. 

Where  they  are  said  to  go  : 

But  superstition  still  deceives ; 

And  fairies  still  prevail ; 
While  stooping  genius  e'en  believes 

The  customary  tale. 

Oh,  loveliest  time !  oh,  sweetest  hours 

The  musing  soul  can  find ! 
Now,  Evening,  let  thy  soothing  powers 

At  freedom  fill  the  mind. 


WHAT  IS  LIFE? 


And  what  is  Life? — An  hour-glass  on  the  run, 
A  mist  retreating  from  the  morning  sun, 

A  busy,  bustling,  still  repeated  dream ; 
Its  length? — A  minute's  pause,  a  moment's  thought ; 

And  happiness  ? — A  bubble  on  the  stream, 
That  in  the  act  of  seizing  shrinks  to  nought. 

What  are  vain  Hopes? — The  puflSng  gale  of  morn, 
That  of  its  charms  divests  the  dewy  lawn. 

And  robs  each  flow'ret  of  its  gem, — and  dies ; 
A  cobweb  hiding  disappointment's  thorn. 

Which  stings  more  keenly  through  the  thin  disguise. 


36  WHAT  IS  LIFE. 

And  thou,  O  Trouble  ? — nothing  can  suppose, 
(And  sure  the  power  of  wisdom  only  knows,) 

What  need  requireth  thee : 
So  free  and  Hberal  as  thy  bounty  flows, 

Some  necessary  cause  must  surely  be  : 
But  disappointments,  pains,  and  every  woe 

Devoted  wretches  feel. 
The  universal  plagues  of  life  below, 

Are  mysteries  still  'neath  Fate's  unbroken  seal. 

And  what  is  Death  ?   is  still  the  cause  unfound  ? 
That  dark,  mysterious  name  of  horrid  sound  ? — 

A  long  and  lingering  sleep,  the  weary  crave. 
And  Peace  ?  where  can  its  happiness  abound  ? — 

No  where  at  all,  save  heaven,  and  the  grave. 

Then  what  is  Life  ? — When  stripp'd  of  its  disguise, 
A  thing  to  be  desir'd  it  cannot  be ; 


WHAT  IS  LIFE. 

Since  every  thing  that  meets  our  foolish  eyes 
Gives  proof  suflScient  of  its  vanity. 

Tis  but  a  trial  all  must  undergo ; 

To  teach  unthankful  mortals  how  to  prize 

That  happiness  vain  man's  denied  to  know, 
Until  he's  call'd  to  claim  it  in  the  skies. 


ON  A  LOST  GREYHOUND 

LYING  ON  THE  SNOW. 


Ah,  thou  poor,  neglected  hound ! 

Now  thou'st  done  with  catching  hares, 
Thou  raayst  lie  upon  the  ground. 

Lost,  for  what  thy  master  cares. 


38  ON  A  LOST  GREYHOUND. 

To  see  thee  lie,  it  makes  me  sigh : 

A  proud,  hard  hearted  man  ! 
But  men,  we  know,  like  dogs  may  go, 

When  they've  done  all  they  can. 

And  thus,  from  witnessing  thy  fate, 

Thoughtful  reflection  wakes ; 
Though  thou'rt  a  dog,  with  grief  I  say't. 

Poor  man  thy  fare  partakes  : 
Like  thee,  lost  whelp,  the  poor  man's  help, 

Erewhile  so  much  desir'd, 
Now  harvest's  got,  is  wanted  not, 

Or  little  is  requir'd. 

So  now,  the  overplus  will  be 

As  useless  negroes,  all 
Turn'd  in  the  bitter  blast,  like  thee 

Mere  cumber-grounds,  to  fall : 


ON  A  LOST  GREYHOUND.  39 

But  this  reward,  for  toil  so  hard, 

Is  sure  to  meet  return 
From  Him,  whose  ear  is  always  near, 

When  the  oppressed  mourn. 

For  dogs,  as  men,  are  equally 

A  link  of  Nature's  chain, 
Form'd  by  that  hand  that  formed  me, 

Which  formeth  nought  in  vain. 
All  life  contains,  as  'twere  by  chains, 

From  Him  still  perfect  are ; 
Nor  does  He  think  the  meanest  link 

Unworthy  of  His  care. 

So  let  us  both  on  Him  rely, 

And  He'll  for  us  provide ; 
Find  us  a  shelter  warm  and  dry, 

And  every  thing  beside. 


40  ON  A  LOST  GREYHOUND. 

And  while  fools,  void  of  sense,  deride 

My  tenderness  to  thee ; 
I'll  take  thee  home,  from  whence  I've  come  : 

So  rise,  and  gang  with  me. 

Poor,  patient  thing !   he  seems  to  hear 

And  know  what  I  have  said ; 
He  wags  his  tail,  and  ventures  near. 

And  bows  his  mournful  head. 
Thou'rt  welcome :  come !  and  though  thou'rt  dumb, 

Thy  silence  speaks  thy  pains ; 
So  with  me  start,  to  share  a  part. 

While  I  have  aught  remains. 


41 


A  REFLECTION  IN  AUTUMN. 


Now  Autumn's  come,  adieu  the  pleasing  greens, 
The  charming  landscape,  and  the  flow'ry  plain ! 

All  have  deserted  from  these  motley  scenes, 
With  blighted  yellow  ting  d,  and  russet  stain. 

Though  desolation  seems  to  triumph  here. 

Yet  this  is  Spring  to  what  we  still  shall  find  : 

The  trees  must  all  in  nakedness  appear, 
'Reft  of  their  foliage  by  the  blustiy  wind. 

Just  so  'twill  fare  with  me  in  Autumn's  Life ; 

Just  so  I'd  wish :  but  may  the  trunk  and  all 
Die  with  the  leaves ;  nor  taste  that  wintry  strife, 

When  sorrows  urge,  and  fear  impedes  the  fall. 


4^ 


THE  ROBIN. 


Now  the  snow  hides  the  ground,  little  birds  leave 

the  wood, 
And  fly  to  the  cottage  to  beg  for  their  food ; 
While  the  Robin,  domestic,  more  tame  than  the  rest, 
With  its  wings  drooping  down,   and  its  feathers 

undrest. 
Comes  close  to  our  windows,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  I  would  venture  in,  if  I  could  find  a  way  : 
I'm  starv'd,  and  I  want  to  get  out  of  the  cold ; 
Oh !  make  me  a  passage,  and  think  me  not  bold." 
Ah,  poor  little  creature  !  thy  visits  reveal 
Complaints  such  as  these,  to  the  heart  that  can  feel : 
Nor  shall  such  complainings  be  urged  in. vain; 
I'll  make  thee  a  hole,  if  I  take  out  a  pane. 


THE  ROBIN.  43 

Come  in,  and  a  welcome  reception  thou'lt  find  : 

I  keep  no  grimalkin  to  murder  inclin'd. 

But  oh,  little  Robin !  be  careful  to  shun 

That  house,  where  the  peasant  makes  use  of  a  gun ; 

For  if  thou  but  taste  of  the  seed  he  has  strew'd, 

Thy  life  as  a  ransom  must  pay  for  the  food  : 

His  aim  is  unerring,  his  heart  is  as  hard ; 

And  thy  race,  though  so  harmless,  he'll  never  regard. 

Distinction  with  him,  boy,  is  nothing  at  all ; 

Both  the  Wren,  and  the  Robin,  with  Sparrows  must 

fall. 
For  his  soul  (though  he  outwardly  looks  like  a  man,) 
Is  in  nature  a  wolf  of  the  Apennine  clan ; 
Like  them  his  whole  study  is  bent  on  his  prey : 
Then  be  careful,  and  shun  what  is  meant  to  betray. 
Come,  come  to  my  cottage ;  and  thou  shalt  be  free 
To  perch  on  my  ftnger,  and  sit  on  my  knee : 
Thou  shalt  eat  of  the  crumbles  of  bread  to  thy  fill, 
And  have  leisure  to  clean  both  thy  feathers  and  bill. 


44  THE  ROBIN. 

Then  come,  little  Robin !  and  never  believe 
Such  warm  invitations  are  meant  to  deceive : 
In  duty  I'm  bound  to  show  mercy  on  thee, 
Since  God  don't  deny  it  to  sinners  like  me. 


EPIGRAM. 


For  fools  that  would  wish  to  seem  learned  and 
wise, 
This  receipt  a  wise  man  did  bequeath  : — 
"  Let  'em  have  the  free  use  of  their  ears  and  their 
eyes ; 
"  But  their  tongue,"  says  he,  "  tie  to  their  teeth." 


45 


ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY, 

IN   WINTER. 


O  THOU  Bliss !  to  riches  known. 

Stranger  to  the  poor  alone ; 

Giving  most  where  none's  requir'd, 

Leaving  none  where  most's  desir'd ; 

Who,  sworn  friend  to  miser,  keeps 

Adding  to  his  useless  heaps 

Gifts  on  gifts  profusely  stor'd. 

Till  thousands  swell  the  mouldy  hoard : 

While  poor,  shatter'd  Poverty, 

To  advantage  seen  in  me, 

With  his  rags,  his  wants,  and  pain, 

Waking  pity  but  in  vain, 

Bowing,  cringing  at  thy  side. 

Begs  his  mite,  and  is  denied. 


46  ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY. 

O,  thou  Blessing !  let  not  me 
Tell  as  vain  my  wants  to  thee ; 
Thou,  by  name  of  Plenty  stil'd. 
Fortune's  heir,  her  favourite  child. 
'Tis  a  maxim — hunger  feed, 
Give  the  needy  when  they  need ; 
He,  whom  all  profess  to  serve. 
The  same  maxim  did  observe  : 
Their  obedience  here,  how  well. 
Modern  times  will  plainly  tell. 
Hear  my  wants,  nor  deem  me  bold. 
Not  without  occasion  told  : 
Hear  one  wish ;  nor  fail  to  give ; 
Use  me  well,  and  bid  me  live. 

'Tis  not  great,  what  I  solicit; 
Was  it  more,  thou  couldst  not  miss  it  : 
Now  the  cutting  winter's  come, 
'Tis  but  just  to  find  a  home. 
In  some  shelter,  dry  and  warm. 
That  will  shield  me  from  the  storm. 


ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY.  47 


Toiling  in  the  naked  fields, 
Where  no  bush  a  shelter  yields, 
Needy  Labour  dithering  stands. 
Beats  and  blows  his  numbing  hands ; 
And  upon  the  crumping  snows 
Stamps,  in  vain,  to  warm  his  toes. 
Leaves  are  fled,  that  once  had  power 
To  resist  a  summer  shower ; 
And  the  wind  so  piercing  blows, 
Winnowing  small  the  drifting  snows. 
The  summer  shade  of  loaded  bough 
Would  vainly  boast  a  shelter  now  : 
Piercing  snows  so  searching  fall, 
They  sift  a  passage  through  them  all. 
Though  all's  vain  to  keep  him  warm, 
Poverty  must  brave  the  storm. 
Friendship  none,  its  aid  to  lend  : 
Health  alone  his  only  friend ; 
Granting  leave  to  live  in  pain, 
Giving  strength  to  toil  in  vain  ; 


48  ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY. 

To  be,  while  winter's  horrors  last, 
The  sport  of  every  pelting  blast. 

Oh,  sad  sons  of  Poverty ! 
Victims  doom'd  to  misery ; 
Who  can  paint  what  pain  prevails 
O'er  that  heart  which  want  assails  ? 
Modest  Shame  the  pain  conceals : 
No  one  knows,  but  he  who  feels. 
Oh,  thou  charm  which  Plenty  crowns. 
Fortune  !  smile,  now  Winter  frowns  : 
Cast  around  a  pitying  eye ; 
Feed  the  hungry  ere  they  die. 
Think,  oh  !  think  upon  the  poor, 
Nor  against  them  shut  thy  door : 
Freely  let  thy  bounty  flow, 
On  the  sons  of  want  and  woe. 

Hills  and  dales  no  more  are  seen, 
In  their  dress  of  pleasing  green  ; 


ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY.  4i> 


Summer's  robes  are  all  thrown  by, 
For  the  clothing  of  the  sky ; 
Snows  on  snows  in  heaps  combine, 
Hillocks,  rais'd  as  moimtains,  shine, 
And  at  distance  rising  proud, 
Each  appears  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Plenty,  now  thy  gifts  bestow ; 
Exit  bid  to  every  woe  : 
Take  me  in,  shut  out  the  blast, 
Make  the  doors  and  windows  fast; 
Place  me  in  some  cornei,  where. 
Lolling  in  an  elbow  chair, 
Happy,  blest  to  my  desire, 
I  may  find  a  rouzing  fire ; 
While  in  chimney-corner  nigh, 
Coal,  or  wood,  a  fresh  supply, 
Ready  stands  for  laying  on, 
Soon  as  t'other's  burnt  and  gone. 
Now  and  then,  as  taste  decreed, 
In  a  book  a  page  I'd  read; 


D 


50  ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY. 

And  inquiry  to  amuse, 

Peep  at  something  in  the  news ; 

See  who's  married,  and  who's  dead, 

And  who,  through  bankrupt,  beg  their  bread : 

^Vliile  on  hob,  or  table  nigh, 

Just  to  drink  before  I'm  dry, 

A  pitcher  at  my  side  should  stand. 

With  the  barrel  nigh  at  hand. 

Always  ready  as  I  will'd. 

When  'twas  empty,  to  be  fill'd ; 

And,  to  be  possess'd  of  all, 

A  corner  cupboard  in  the  wall. 

With  store  of  victuals  lin'd  complete. 

That  when  hungry  I  might  eat. 

Then  would  I  in  Plenty's  lap, 

For  the  first  time  take  a  nap ; 

Falling  back  in  easy  lair. 

Sweetly  slumb'ring  in  my  chair ; 

With  no  reflective  thoughts  to  wake 

Pains  that  cause  my  heart  to  ache, 


ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY.  51 


Of  contracted  debts  long  made,^ 
In  no  prospect  to  be  paid ; 
And,  to  want,  sad  news  severe, 
Of  provisions  getting  dear : 
While  the  winter,  shocking  sight, 
Constant  freezes  day  and  night, 
Deep  and  deeper  falls  the  snow, 
Labour's  slack,  and  wages  low. 
These,  and  more,  the  poor  can  tell. 
Known,  alas !  by  them  too  well, 
Plenty !  oh,  if  blest  by  thee, 
Never  more  should  trouble  me. 
Hours  and  weeks  will  sweetly  glide, 
Soft  and  smooth  as  flows  the  tide. 
Where  no  stones  or  choaking  grass 
Force  a  curve  ere  it  can  pass : 
And  as  happy,  and  as  blest, 
As  beasts  drop  them  down  to  rest, 
When  in  pastures  at  their  will. 
They  have  roam'd  and  eat  their  fill ; 


5^  ADBRESS  TO  PLENTY. 

Soft  as  nights  in  summer  creep, 

So  should  I  then  fall  asleep ; 

"\ThiIe  sweet  visions  of  delight, 

So  enchanting  to  the  sight, 

Sweetly  swimming  o'er  my  eyes, 

Would  sink  me  into  extacies. 

Nor  would  Pleasure's  dreams  once  more. 

As  they  oft  have  done  before, 

Cause  be  to  create  a  pain. 

When  I  woke  to  find  them  vain  : 

Bitter  past,  the  present  sweet. 

Would  my  happiness  complete. 

Oh !  how  easy  I  should  lie, 

With  the  fire  up-blazing  high, 

(Summer's  artificial  bloom,) 

That  like  an  oven  keeps  the  room, 

Or  lovely  May,  as  mild  and  warm : 

While,  without,  the  raging  storm 

Is  roaring  in  the  chimney-top, 

In  no  likelihood  to  drop ; 


ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY.  53 


And  the  witchen-branches  nigh. 
O'er  my  snug  box  towering  high, 
That  sweet  shelter'd  stands  beneath, 
In  convulsive  eddies  wreathe. 
Then  while,  tyrant-like,  the  storm 
Takes  delight  in  doing  harm, 
Down  before  him  crushing  all. 
Till  his  weapons  useless  fall ; 
And  as  in  oppression  proud. 
Peal  his  bowlings  long  and  loud. 
While  the  clouds,  with  horrid  sweep, 
Give  (as  suits  a  tyrant's  trade) 
The  sun  a  minute's  leave  to  peep, 
To  smile  upon  the  ruins  made ; 
And  to  make  complete  the  blast, 
While  the  hail  comes  hard  and  fast, 
RattUng  loud  against  the  glass ; 
And  the  snowy  sleets,  that  pass, 
Driving  up  in  heaps  remain 
Close  adhering  to  the  pane, 


54  ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY. 

Stop  the  light,  and  spread  a  gloom, 
Suiting  sleep,  around  the  room : — 
Oh,  how  blest  mid  these  alarms, 
I  should  bask  in  Fortune's  arms, 
Who  defying  every  frown, 
Hugs  me  on  her  downy  breast. 
Bids  my  head  lie  easy  down. 
And  on  winter's  ruins  rest. 
So  upon  the  troubled  sea, 
F.mblfimatin  simile. 
Birds  are  known  to  sit  secure. 
While  the  billows  roar  and  rave, 
Slumbering  in  their  safety  sure, 
Rock'd  to  sleep  upon  the  wave. 
So  would  I  still  slumber  on, 
Till  hour-telling  clocks  had  gone, 
And  from  the  contracted  day, 
One  or  more  had  click 'd  away. 
Then  with  sitting  wearied  out, 
I  for  change's  sake,  no  doubt, 


ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY. 

Just  might  wish  to  leave  my  seat, 
And  to  exercise  my  feet, 
Make  a  journey  to  the  door, 
Put  my  nose  out,  but  no  more ; 
There  to  village  taste  agree, 
Mark  how  times  are  like  to  be. 
How  the  weather's  getting  on, 
Peep  in  ruts  where  carts  have  gone, 
Or,  by  stones,  a  sturdy  stroke, 
View  the  hole  the  boys  have  broke  : 
Then,  to  pause  on  ills  to  come, 
Just  look  upward  on  the  gloom ; 
See  fresh  storms  approaching  fast, 
View  them  busy  in  the  air. 
Boiling  up  the  brewing  blast ; 
Still  fresh  horrors  scheming  there. 
Black  and  dismal  rising  high,  . 
From  the  north  they  fright  the  eye  : 
Pregnant  with  a  thousand  storms. 
Huddled  in  their  icy  arms. 


56  ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY, 

Heavy  hovering  as  they  come, 
Some  as  mountains  seem — and  some 
Jagg'd  as  craggy  rocks  appear, 
Dismally  advancing  near : 
Fancy,  at  the  cumbrous  sight, 
Chills  and  shudders  with  affright. 
Fearing  lest  the  air,  in  vain. 
Strives  her  station  to  maintain, 
And  wearied,  yielding  to  the  skies, 
The  world  beneath  in  ruin  lies. 
So  may  fancy  think  and  feign ; 
Fancy  oft  imagines  vain  : 
Nature's  laws  by  wisdom  penn'd. 
Mortals  cannot  comprehend  ; 
Power  almighty  Beii.g  gave. 
Endless  Mercy  stoops  to  save ; 
Causes,  hid  from  mortals'  sight, 
Prove  "  whatever  is,  is  right." 
Then  to  look  again  below, 
Labour's  former  life  I'd  view, 


ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY. 

Who,  still  beating  through  the  snow. 
Spite  of  storms  their  toils  pursue, 
Forc'd  out  by  sad  necessity. 
That  sad  fiend  that  forces  me. 
Troubles,  then  no  more  my  own. 
Which  I  but  too  long  had  known. 
Might  create  a  care,  a  pain ; 
Then  I'd  seek  my  joys  again : 
Pile  the  fire  up,  fetch  a  drink, 
Then  sit  down  again  and  think ; 
Pause  on  all  my  sorrows  past, 
Think  how  many  a  bitter  blast. 
When  it  snow'd,  and  hail'd,  and  blew, 
I  have  toil'd  and  batter'd  through. 
Then  to  ease  reflective  pain, 
To  my  sports  I'd  fall  again. 
Till  the  clock  had  counted  ten ; 
When  I'd  seek  my  downy  bed, 
Easy,  happy,  and  well  fed. 

d3 


5S  ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY. 

Then  might  peep  the  morn  in  vain. 
Through  the  rimy  misted  pane ; 
Then  might  bawl  the  restless  cock. 
And  the  loud-tongued  village  clock  ; 
And  the  flail  might  lump  away, 
Waking  soon  the  dreary  day  : 
They  should  never  waken  me, 
Independent,  blest,  and  free ; 
Nor,  as  usual,  make  me  start, 
Yawning  sigh  with  heavy  heart. 
Loth  to  ope  my  sleepy  eyes, 
Weary  still,  in  pain  to  rise, 
With  aching  bones  and  heavy  head, 
Worse  than  when  I  went  to  bed. 
With  nothing  then  to  raise  a  sigh. 
Oh  how  happy  should  I  lie 
Till  the  clock  was  eight,  or  more. 
Then  proceed  as  heretofore. 
Best  of  blessings !  sweetest  charm  ! 
Boon  these  wishes  while  they're  warm ; 


ADDRESS  TO  PLENTY.  59 


My  fairy  visions  ne'er  despise ; 
As  reason  thinks,  thou  realize  : 
Depress'd  with  want  and  poverty, 
I  sink,  I  fall,  denied  by  thee. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


Her  dusky  mantle  Eve  had  spread ; 
The  west  sky  glower'd  with  copper  red ; 

Sun  bid  "  good  night,"  and  slove  to  bed 
'Hind  black  cloud's  mimick'd  mountain ; 

When  weary  from  my  toil  I  sped, 
To  seek  the  purling  fountain. 


60  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

Labour  had  gi'en  it  up  for  good, 

Save  swains  their  folds  that  beetling  stood. 

While  Echo  list'ning  in  the  wood. 
Each  knock  kept  'stinctly  counting ; 

The  Moon  just  peep'd  her  horned  hood. 
Faint  glimmering  in  the  fountain. 

Ye  gently  dimpled,  curling  streams, 
Rilling  as  smooth  as  summer  dreams, 

111  pair'd  to  yours  life's  current  seems. 
When  Hope,  rude  cataracts  mounting, 

Bursts  cheated  into  vain  extremes, 
Far  from  the  peaceful  fountain. 

I'd  just  streak'd  down,  and  with  a  swish 
Whang'd  off  my  hat  soak'd  like  a  fish, 

When  'bove  what  heart  could  think  or  wish- 
For  chance  there's  no  accounting — 

A  sweet  lass  came  with  wooden  dish. 
And  dipt  it  in  the  fountain. 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  61 

I've  often  found  a  rural  charm 

In  pastoral  song  my  heart  to  warm, 

But,  faith,  her  beauties  gave  alarm, 
'Bove  all  I'd  seen  surmounting ; 

And  when  to  the  spring  she  stretch'd  her  arm, 
My  heart  chill'd  in  the  fountain. 

Simple,  witching,  artless  maid, 
So  modestly  she  ofFer'd  aid, 

"  And  will  you  please  to  drink  ? "  she  said ; 
My  pulse  beat  past  the  counting ; 

Oh !  Innocence  such  charms  display'd, 
I  can't  forget  the  fountain. 

Ere,  lonely,  home  she  'gan  proceed, 
I  said — what's  secrecy  indeed. 

And  ofFer'd  company  as  need. 
The  moon  was  highly  mounting ; 

And  still  her  charms — I'd  scorn  the  deed — 
Were  pure  as  was  the  fountain. 


62  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

Ye  leaning  palms,  that  seem  to  look 
Pleas'd  o'er  your  image  in  the  brook ; 

Ye  ashes,  harbouring  pye  and  rook. 
Your  shady  boughs  be  mounting ; 

Ye  Muses,  leave  Castalia's  nook. 
And  sacred  make  the  fountain. 


TO  AN  INSIGNIFICANT  FLOWER, 

OBSCURELY  ELOOMING  IN  A  LONELY  WILD. 


And  though  thou  seem'st  a  weedling  wild. 
Wild  and  neglected  like  to  me ; 

Thou  still  art  dear  to  nature's  child, 
And  I  will  stoop  to  notice  thee. 


TO  AN  INSIGNIFICANT  FLOWER.  63 

For  oft,  like  thee,  in  wild  retreat, 

Array'd  in  humble  garb  like  thee, 
There's  many  a  seeming  weed  proves  sweet, 

As  sweet  as  garden-flowers  can  be. 

And,  like  to  thee,  each  seeming  weed 

Flowers  unregarded,  like  to  thee 
Without  improvement  runs  to  seed, 

Wild  and  neglected  like  to  me. 

And,  like  to  thee,  when  beauty's  cloth'd 

In  lowly  raiment,  like  to  thee ; 
Disdainful  pride,  by  beauty  loath'd. 

No  beauties  there  can  ever  see. 

For,  like  to  thee,  my  Emma  blows, 

A  flower  like  thee  I  dearly  prize ; 
And,  like  to  thee,  her  humble  clothes 

Hide  every  charm  from  prouder  eyes. 


64  TO  AN  INSIGNIFICANT  FLOWER. 

But  though,  like  thee,  a  lowly  flower, 

If  fancied  by  a  polish'd  eye. 
She  soon  would  bloom  beyond  my  power, 

The  finest  flower  beneath  the  sky. 

And,  like  to  thee,  lives  many  a  swain 
With  genius  blest ;  but,  like  to  thee, 

So  humble,  lowly,  mean,  and  plain, 
No  one  will  notice  them,  or  me. 

So,  like  to  thee,  they  live  unknown. 

Wild  weeds  obscure ;  and,  like  to  thee, 

Their  sweets  are  sweet  to  them  alone  : 
The  only  pleasure  known  to  me. 

Yet  when  I'm  dead,  let's  hope  I  have 
Some  friend  in  store,  as  I'm  to  thee. 

That  will  find  out  my  lowly  grave. 
And  heave  a  sigh  to  notice  me. 


65 


ELEGY  ON  THE  RUINS  OF  PICKWORTH, 

RUTLANDSHIRE. 

liASTlLY    COMPOSED,    AND    WRITTEN    WITH    A    PENCIL    ON 

THE  SPOT. 


► 


These  buried  ruins,  now  in  dust  forgot, 

These  heaps  of  stone  the  only  remnants  seen, — 

"  The  Old  Foundations"  still  they  call  the  spot, 
Which  plainly  tells  inquiry  what  has  been — 

A  time  was  once,  though  now  the  nettle  grows 
In  triumph  o'er  each  heap  that  swells  the  ground, 

When  they,  in  buildings  pil'd,  a  village  rose, 
With  here  a  cot,  and  there  a  garden  crown'd. 

And  here  while  grandeur,  with  unequal  share, 
Perhaps  maintain'd  its  idleness  and  pride. 

Industry's  cottage  rose  contented  there, 

With  scarce  so  much  as  wants  of  life  supplied. 


66       ELEGY  ON  THE  RUINS  OF  PICKWORTH. 

Mysterious  cause !  still  more  mysterious  planned, 
(Although  undoubtedly  the  will  of  Heaven :) 

To  think  what  careless  and  unequal  hand 
Metes  out  each  portion  that  to  man  is  given. 

While  vain  extravagance,  for  one  alone, 

Claims  half  the  land  his  grandeur  to  maintain ; 

What  thousands,  not  a  rood  to  call  their  own. 
Like  me  but  labour  for  support  in  vain  ? 

Here  we  see  Luxury  surfeit  with  excess ; 

There  Want,  bewailing,  beg  from  door  to  door ; 
Still  meeting  sorrow  where  he  meets  success, 

By  lengthening  life  that  liv'd  in  vain  before. 

Ye  scenes  of  desolation  spread  around, 

Prosperity  to  you  did  once  belong ; 
And,  doubtless,  where  these  brambles  claim  the 

ground, 
The  glass  once  flow'd  to  hail  the  ranting  song. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  RUINS  OF  PICKWORTH.       67 

Tlie  ale-house  here  might  stand,  each  hamlet's  boast ; 

And  here,  where  alder  rich  from  ruin  grows, 
The  tempting  sign — but  what  was  once  is  lost : 

Who  would  be  proud  of  what  this  world  bestows  ? 

How  Contemplation  mourns  their  lost  decay. 
To  view  their  pride  laid  level  with  the  ground ; 

To  see,  where  labour  clears  the  soil  away, 
What  fragments  of  mortality  abound. 

There's  not  a  rood  of  land  demands  our  toil. 
There's  not  a  foot  of  ground  we  daily  tread. 

But  gains  increase  from  time's  devouring  spoil, 
But  holds  some  fragment  of  the  human  dead. 

The  very  food,  which  for  support  we  have. 
Claims  for  its  share  an  equal  portion  too ; 

The  dust  of  many  a  long-forgotten  grave 

Serves  to  manure  the  soil  from  whence  it  grew. 


68       ELEGY  ON  THE  RUINS  OF  PICKWORTH. 

Since  first  these  ruins  fell,  hoy/  changed  the  scene ! 

What  busy,  bustling  mortals  now  unknown. 
Have  come  and  gone,  as  though  there  nought  had 
been. 

Since  first  Oblivion  call'd  the  spot  her  own. 

Ye  busy,  bustling  mortals,  known  before, 
Of  what  you've  done,  where  went,  or  what  you  see, 

Of  what  your  hopes  attain'd  to,  (now  no  more,) 
For  everlasting  lies  a  mystery. 

Like  yours,  awaits  for  me  that  common  lot; 

'Tis  mine  to  be  of  every  hope  bereft : 
A  few  more  years  and  I  shall  be  forgot. 

And  not  a  vestige  of  my  memory  left. 


69 


NOON. 

All  how  silent  and  how  still, 
Nothing  heard  but  yonder  mill ; 
While  the  dazzled  eye  surveys 
All  around  a  liquid  blaze ; 
And  amid  the  scorching  gleams, 
If  we  earnest  look,  it  seems 
As  if  crooked  bits  of  glass 
Seem'd  repeatedly  to  pass. 
Oh,  for  a  puffing  breeze  to  blow ; 
But  breezes  are  all  strangers  now 
N  ot  a  twig  is  seen  to  shake. 
Nor  the  smallest  bent  to  quake ; 
From  the  river's  muddy  side, 
Not  a  curve  is  seen  to  glide; 
And  no  longer  on  the  stream, 
Watching  lies  the  silver  bream. 


70  NOON, 

Forcing,  from  repeated  springs, 
"  Verges  in  successive  rings." 
Bees  are  faint,  and  cease  to  hum, 
Birds  are  overpower'd  and  dumb. 
Rural  voices  all  are  mute, 
Tuneless  lie  the  pipe  and  flute  : 
Shepherds  with  their  panting  sheep, 
In  the  swaliest  corner  creep, 
And  from  the  tormenting  heat 
All  are  wishing  to  retreat. 
Huddled  up  in  grass  and  flowers, 
Mowers  wait  for  cooler  hours  ; 
And  the  cow-boy  seeks  the  sedge. 
Ramping  in  the  woodland  hedge, 
While  his  cattle  o'er  the  vales 
Scamper  with  uplifted  tails ;     . 
Others  not  so  wild  and  mad, 
That  can  better  bear  the  gad, 
Underneath  the  hedge-row  lujuge. 
Or,  if  nigh,  in  waters  plunge. 


NOON.  71 

Oh  l  to  see  how  flovpers  are  took, 

How  it  grieves  me  when  K  look  : 

Ragged-robins,  once  so  pink, 

Now  are  turn'd  as  black  as  ink, 

And  the  leaves  being  scorch'd  so  much, 

Even  crumble  at  the  touch ; 

Drowking  lies  the  meadow-sweet. 

Flopping  down  beneath  one's  feet : 

While  to  all  the  flowers  that  blow. 

If  in  open  air  they  grow, 

Th'  injurious  deed  alike  is  done 

By  the  hot  relentless  sun. 

E'en  the  dew  is  parched  up 

From  the  teazle's  jointed  cup : 

O  poor  birds !  where  must  ye  fly, 

Now  your  water-pots  are  dry  ? 

If  ye  stay  upon  the  heath, 

Ye'll  be  choak'd  and  clamm'd  to  death : 

Therefore  leave  the  shadeless  goss, 

Seek  the  spring-head  lin'd  with  moss; 


7*2  Noo]y. 

There  your  little  feet  may  stand. 
Safely  printing  on  the  sand  ; 
While,  in  full  possession,  where 
Purling  eddies  ripple  clear. 
You  with  ease  and  plenty  blest, 
Sip  the  coolest  and  the  best. 
Then  away  !  and  wet  your  throats  ; 
Cheer  me  with  your  warbling  notes ; 
'Twill  hot  noon  the  more  revive  ; 
While  I  wander  to  contrive 
For  myself  a  place  as  good. 
In  the  middle  of  a  wood  : 
There  aside  some  mossy  bank, 
Where  the  grass  in  bunches  rank 
Lifts  its  down  on  spindles  high, 
Shall  be  where  I'll  choose  to  lie ; 
Fearless  of  the  things  that  creep, 
There  I'll  think,  and  there  I'll  sleep  ; 
Caring  not  to  stir  at  all, 
Till  the  dew  begms  to  fall, 


/o 


THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL. 


To  yon  low  church,  with  solemn  sounding  knell, 
Which  t'other  day,  as  rigid  fate  decreed, 

Mournfully  knoU'd  a  widow's  passing  bell, 
The  village  funeral's  warned  to  proceed. 

Mournful  indeed !  the  orphans'  friends  are  fled : 
Their  father's  tender  care  has  long  been  past; 

The  widow's  toil  was  all  their  hope  of  bread, 
And  now  the  grave  awaits  to  seize  the  last. 

^  But  that  providing  Power,  for  ever  nigh, 
The  universal  friend  of  all  distress, 
Is  sure  to  hear  their  supplicating  cry, 
And  prove  a  father  to  the  fatherless. 


r\ 


f4  THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL. 

Now  from  the  low,  mud  cottage  on  the  moor, 
By  two  and  two  sad  bend  the  weeping  train ; 

The  coffin,  ready  near  the  propt-up  door, 
Now  slow  proceeds  along  the  wayward  lane. 

While,  as  they  nearer  draw  in  solemn  state. 
The  village  neighbours  are  assembled  round ; 

And  seem  with  fond  anxiety  to  wait 

The  sad  procession  in  the  burial  ground. 

Yet  every  face  the  face  of  sorrow  wears ; 

And  now  the  solemn  scene  approaches  nigh, 
Each  to  make  way  for  the  slow  march  prepares, 

And  on  the  coffin  casts  a  serious  eye. 

Now  walks  the  curate  through  the  silent  crowd. 
In  snowy  surplice  loosely  banded  round ; 

Now  meets  the  corse,  and  now  he  reads  aloud 
In  mournful  tone  along  the  burial  ground. 


THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL.  7& 

The  church  they  enter,  and  adown  the  aisle, 
Which  more  than  usual  wears  a  solemn  hue, 

They  rest  the  coffin  on  set  forms  awhile, 
Till  the  good  priest  performs  the  office  due. 

And  though  by  duty  aw'd  to  silence  here. 
The  orphans'  griefs  so  piercing  force  a  way ; 

And,  oh !  so  moving  do  their  griefs  appear, 
The  worthy  pastor  kneels,  in  tears,  to  pray. 

The  funeral  rites  perform'd,  by  custom  thought 

A  tribute  sacred  and  essential  here, 
Now  to  the  last,  last  place  the  body's  brought. 

Whence  all,  dread  fate !  are  summon'd  to  appear. 

The  church-yard  round  a  mournful  view  displays, 
Views  where  mortality  is  plainly  penu'd-; 

Drear  seem  the  objects  which  the  eye  surveys, 
.As  objects  pointing  to  our  latter  end. 


7t»  THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL. 

There  the  lank  nettles  sicken  ere  they  seed. 
Where  from  old  trees  eve's  cordial  vainly  falls 

To  raise  or  comfort  each  dejected  w^eed, 

While  pattering  drops  decay  the  crumbling  walls. 

Here  stand,  far  distant  from  the  pomp  of  pride, 
Mean  little  stones,  thin  scatter'd  here  and  there ; 

By  the  scant  means  of  Poverty  applied. 
The  fond  memorial  of  her  friends  to  bear. 

O  Memory  !  thou  sweet,  enliv'ning  power. 
Thou  shadow  of  that  fame  all  hope  to  find ; 

ITie  meanest  soul  exerts  her  utmost  power. 
To  leave  some  fragment  of  a  name  behind. 

Now  crowd  the  sad  spectators  round  to  see 
The  deep  sunk  grave,  whose  heap  of  swelling  mold. 

Full  of  the  fragments  of  mortality. 

Makes  the  heart  shudder  while  the  eyes  behold. 


THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL.  77 

Aw'd  is  the  mind,  by  dreaded  truths  imprest, 
To  think  that  dust,  which  they  before  them  see. 

Once  liv'd  like  them :  chill  Conscience  tells  the  rest, — 
That,  like  that  dust,  themselves  must  shortly  be. 

The  gaping  grave  now  claims  its  destin'd  prey, 
♦'  Ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust,"  is  given  ; 

The  parent  earth  receives  her  kindred  clay, 
And  the  soul  starts  to  meet  its  home  in  heaven. 

Ah,  helpless  babes !  now  grief  in  horror  shrieks, 
Now  sorrow  pauses  dumb :  each  looker-on 

Knows  not  the  urging  language  which  it  speaks, — 
A  friend — provider — this  world's  all — is  gone ! 

Envy  and  malice  now  have  lost  their  aim, 

Slander's  reproachful  tongue  can  rail  no  more ; 

Her  foes  now  pity  where  they  us'd  to  blame; 
The  faults  and  foibles  of  this  life  are  o'er. 


78  THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL. 

The  orphans'  grief  and  sorrow,  so  severe, 
To  every  heart  in  pity's  language  speak ; 

E'en  the  rough  sexton  can't  withhold  the  tear, 
That  steals  unnotic'd  down  his  furrow'd  cheek. 

Who  but  is  griev'd  to  see  the  fatherless 
Stroll  with  their  rags  unnotic'd  through  the  street? 

What  eye  but  moistens  at  their  sad  distress, 
And  sheds  compassion's  tear  whene'er  they  meet? 

Yon  workhouse  stands  as"  their  asylum  now. 
The  place  where  poverty  demands  to  live ; 

Where  parish  bounty  scowls  his  scornful  brow, 
And  grudges  the  scant  fare  he's  forc'd  to  give. 

Oh,  may  I  die  before  I'm  doom'd  to  seek 
That  last  resource  of  hope,  but  ill  supplied ; 

To  claim  the  humble  pittance  once  a  week. 
Which  justice  forces  from  disdainful  pride! — 


THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL.  79 

AVhere  the  lost  orphan,  lowly  bendhig,  weeps, 
Unnotic'd  by  the  heedless  as  they  pass. 

There  the  grave  closes  where  a  mother  sleeps. 
With  brambles  platted  on  the  tufted  grass. 


EARLY  RISING. 


Just  at  the  early  peep  of  dawn, 
While  brushing  through  the  dewy  lawn. 
And  viewing  all  the  sweets  of  morn 

That  shine  at  early  rising ; 

Ere  the  ploughman  yok'd  his  team, 
Or  sun  had  power  to  gild  the  stream. 
Or  woodlarks  'gan  their  morning  hymn 

To  hail  its  early  rising ; 


80  EARLY  RISING. 

With  modest  look  and  bashful  eye, 
Artless,  innocent,  and  shy, 
A  lovely  maiden  pass'd  me  by. 

And  charm'd  my  early  rising. 

Her  looks  had  every  power  to  wound, 
Her  voice  had  music  in  the  sound, 
When  modestly  she  turn'd  around 

To  greet  my  early  rising. 

Good  nature  forc'd  the  maid  to  speak ; 
And  good  behaviour,  not  to  seek. 
Gave  sweetness  to  her  rosy  cheek, 

Improv'd  by  early  rising. 

While  brambles  caught  her  passing  by. 
And  her  fine  leg  engag'd  my  eye. 
Oh,  who  could  paint  confusion's  dye. 

The  blush  of  early  rising  ! 


EARLY  RISING. 

While  offering  help  to  climb  the  stile, 
A  modest  look  and  winning  smile 
(Love  beaming  in  her  eyes  the  while) 

Repaid  my  early  vising. 

Aside  the  green  hill's  steepy  brow, 
Where  shades  the  oak  its  darksome  bough, 
The  maiden  sat  to  milk  her  cow, 

The  cause  of  early  rising. 

The  wild  rose  mingling  with  the  shade, 

Stung  with  envy,  clos'd  to  fade. 

To  see  the  rose  her  cheeks  displayed, 

The  fruits  of  early  rising. 

The  kiss  desir'd — against  her  will, 
To  take  the  milk-pail  up  the  hill, — 
Seem'd  from  resistance  sweeter  still : 

Thrice  happy  early  rising  I 
3e 


81 


02  EARLY  RISING. 

And  often  since,  aside  the  grove, 
I've  hied  to  meet  the  girl  I  love ; 
Repeating  truths  that  time  shall  prove, 

Which  past  at  early  rising. 

May  it  be  mine  to  spend  my  days 

With  her,  whose  beauty  claims  my  praise ; 

Then  joy  shall  crown  my  rural  lays, 

■    And  bless  my  early  rising. 


MY  MARY. 


Who  lives  where  beggars  rarely  speed, 
And  leads  a  hum-drum  life  indeed. 
As  none  beside  herself  would  lead  ? 

My  Mary. 


MY  MARY.  83 

MTio  lives  where  noises  never  cease, 
And  what  wi'  hogs,  and  ducks,  and  geese, 
Can  never  have  a  minute's  peace  ? 

My  Mary. 

Who,  nearly  battled  to  her  chin. 

Bangs  down  the  yard  through  thick  and  thin. 

Nor  picks  her  road,  nor  cares  a  pin  ? 

My  Mary. 

Who,  save  in  Sunday's  bib  and  tuck. 

Goes  daily  waddling  like  a  duck. 

O'er  head  and  ears  in  grease  and  muck  ? 

My  Mary. 

Unus'd  to  pattens  or  to  clogs. 

Who  takes  the  swill  to  serve  the  hogs. 

And  steals  the  milk  for  cats  and  dogs  ? 

My  Mary. 


84  MY  MARY. 

Who,  frost  and  snow,  as  hard  as  nails. 
Stands  out  o'  doors,  and  never  fails 
To  wash  up  things  and  scour  the  pails  ? 

My  Mary. 

Who  bustles  night  and  day,  in  short, 
At  all  catch  jobs  of  every  sort, 
And  gains  her  mistress'  favour  for't  ? 

'  My  Mary. 

And  who  is  oft  repaid  with  praise, 
In  doing  what  her  mistress  says. 
And  yielding  to  her  whimray  ways  ? 

My  Mary. 

For  there's  none  apter,  I  believe. 
At  "  creeping  up  a  mistress'  sleeve," 
Than  this  low  kindred  stump  of  Eve, 

My  Mary. 


MY  MARY.  85 

Who  when  the  baby's  all , 

To  please  its  mamma  kisses  it, 

And  vows  no  rose  on  earth's  so  sweet  ? 

My  Mary. 

But  when  her  mistress  is  not  nigh, 
Who  swears,  and  wishes  it  would  die, 
And  pinches  it  and  makes  it  cry  ? 

My  Mary. 

Oh,  rank  deceit !  what  soul  could  think — 

But  gently  there,  revealing  ink  : 

At  faults  of  thine  thy  friend  must  wink, 

My  Mary. 

Who,  not  without  a  "  spark  o'  pride," 
Though  strong  as  grunter's  bristly  hide, 
Doth  keep  her  hair  in  papers  tied  ? 

My  Mary, 


86  MY  MARY. 

And,  mimicking  the  gentry's  way, 
Who  strives  to  speak  as  fine  as  they. 
And  minds  but  every  word  they  say  ? 

My  Mary. 

And  who,  though's  well  bid  blind  to  see, 
As  her  to  tell  ye  A  from  B, 
Thinks  herself  none  o'  low  degree  ? 

My  Mary. 

Who  prates  and  runs  o'er  silly  stuff, 
And  'mong  the  boys  makes  sport  enough. 
So  ugly,  silly,  droll  and  rough  ? 

My  Mary. 

Ugly !  Muse,  for  shame  of  thee, 
What  faults  art  thou  a  going  to  see 
In  one,  that's  'lotted  out  to  be 

My  Mary  ? 


MY  MARY. 

Who  low  in  stature,  thick  and  fat, 
Turns  brown  from  going  without  a  hat, 
Though  not  a  pin  the  worse  for  that  ? 

My  Mary. 

Who's  laugh'd  at  too  by  every  whelp, 
For  failings  which  she  cannot  help  ? 
But  silly  fools  will  laugh  and  chelp. 

My  Mary. 

For  though  in  stature  mighty  small. 
And  near  as  thick  as  thou  art  tall, 
The  hand  made  thee,  that  made  us  all. 

My  Mary. 

And  though  thy  nose  hooks  down  too  much, 
And  prophesies  thy  chin  to  touch; 
I'm  not  so  nice  to  look  at  such. 

My  Mary. 


88  MY  MARY. 

No,  no;  about  thy  nose  and  chin, 
Its  hooking  out,  or  bending  in, 
I  never  heed  or  care  a  pin, 

My  Mary. 

And  though  thy  skin  is  brown  and  rough, 
And  form'd  by  nature  hard  and  tough, 
All  suiteth  me !  so  that's  enough. 

My  Mary. 


TO  A  ROSE-BUD  IN  HUMBLE  LIFE. 


Sweet,  uncultivated  blossom, 
Rear'd  in  spring's  refreshing  dews, 

Dear  to  every  gazer's  bosom. 
Fair  to  every  eye  that  views ; 


TO  A  ROSEBUD  IN  HUMBLE  LIFE.  89 

Opening  bud,  whose  youth  can  charm  us, 

Thine  be  many  a  happy  hour ; 
Spreading  rose,  whose  beauty  warms  us. 

Flourish  long,  my  lovely  flower ! 

Though  pride  looks  disdainful  on  thee. 

Scorning  scenes  so  mean  as  thine, 
Although  fortune  frowns  upon  thee. 

Lovely  blossom,  ne'er  repine ; 
Health  unbought  is  ever  wi'  thee. 

What  their  wealth  can  never  gain ; 
Innocence  doth  garments  gi'e  thee, 

Such  as  fashion  apes  in  vain. 

When  fit  time  and  reason  grant  thee 

Leave  to  quit  thy  parent  tree, 
May  some  happy  hand  transplant  thee 

To  a  station  suiting  thee : 


90  TO  A  ROSEBUD  IN  HUMBLE  LIFE. 

On  some  lover's  worthy  bosom, 

May'st  thou  then  thy  sweets  resign  ; 

And  may  each  unfolding  blossom 
Open  charms  as  sweet  as  thine. 

Till  that  time,  may  joys  unceasing 

Thy  bard's  every  wish  fulfil ; 
When  that's  come,  may  joys  increasing 

Make  thee  blest  and  happier  still : 
Flourish  fair,  thou  flower  of  Jessys ; 

Pride  of  each  admiring  swain ; 
Envy  of  despairing  lasses ; 

Queen  of  Walkherd's  lonely  plain. 


91 


THE  UNIVERSAL  EPITAPH. 


No  flattering  praises  daub  my  stone, 

My  frailties  and  my  faults  to  hide  ; 
My  faults  and  failings  all  are  known — 

I  liv'd  in  sin — in  sin  I  died. 
And  oh !  condemn  me  not,  I  pray, 

You  who  my  sad  confession  view ; 
But  ask  your  soul,  if  it  can  say. 

That  I'm  a  viler  man  than  you. 


92 


FAMILIAR  EPISTLE, 


TU    A    FRIEND. 


"  Friendship,  peculiar  boon  of  lieav'n, 
The  noblest  mind's  delight  and  pride ; 
To  men  and  angels  only  giv'n, 
To  all  the  lower  world  denied : 
llij  gentle  flows  of  guiltless  jojs 
On  fools  and  villains  ne'er  descend, 
In  vain  for  thee  the  tyrant  sighs. 
And  hugs  a  flatterer  for  a  friend." 

Johnson. 


This  morning,  just  as  I  awoken, 

A  black  cloud  hung  the  south  unbroken ; 

Thinks  I,  just  now  we'll  have  it  soakin' : 

I  rightly  guess'd. 
'Faith !  glad  were  I  to  see  the  token, 

I  wanted  rest. 


FAMILIAR  EPISTLE.  9i 

And,  'fex !  a  pepp'ring  day  there's  been  on't; 
But  cautioa'd  right  with  what  I'd  seen  on't, 
Keeping  at  home  has  kept  me  clean  on't; 

Ye  know  my  creed : 
Fool-hardy  work,  I  ne'er  was  keen  on't — 

But  let's  proceed. 

I  write  to  keep  from  mischief  merely, 
Fire-side  comforts  'joying  cheerly  ; 
And,  brother  chip,  I  love  ye  dearly. 

Poor  as  ye  be ! 
With  honest  heart  and  soul,  sincerely,  . 

They're  alj  to  me. 

This  scrawl,  mark  thou  the  application, 
Though  hardly  worth  thy  observation, 
Meaneth  an  humble  invitation 

On  some  day's  end  : 
Of  all  ragg'd-raufl5ns  in  the  nation. 

Thou  art  the  friend. 


94  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE, 

I've  long  been  aggravated  shocking, 
To  see  our  gentry  folks  so  cocking  : 
But  sorrow's  often  catch'd  by  mocking, 

The  truth  I've  seen  ; 
Their  pride  may  want  a  shoe  or  stocking, 

For  like  has  been. 

Pride's  power's  not  worth  a  roasted  onion 
I'd's  lief  be  prison  mouse  wi'  Bunyan, 
As  I'd  be  king  of  our  dominion, 

Or  any  other. 
When  shuffled  through  ;  it's  my  opinion, 

One's  good  as  t'other. 

Nor  would  I  gie  from  otF  my  cuflf, 
A  single  pin  for  all  such  stuff : 
Riches !  rubbish !  a  pinch  of  snufF 

Would  dearly  buy  ye ; 
Who's  got  ye,  keeps  ye,  that's  enough  : 

I  don't  envy  ye. 


FAMILIAR  EPISTLE.  95 

If  fate's  so  kind  to  let's  be  doing, 

That's — just  keep  cart  on  wheels  a  going  ; 

O'er  my  half-pint  I  can  be  crowing. 

As  well's  another : 
But  when  there's  this  and  that  stands  owing, 

O  curse  the  bother ! 

For  had  I  money,  like  a  many, 

I'd  balance,  even  to  a  penny. 

Want !  thy  confinement  makes  me  scranny  : 

That  spirit's  mine, 
I'd  sooner  gi'e  than  take  from  any  ; 

But  worth  can't  shine. 

O  Independence  !  oft  I  bait  ye ; 
How  blest  I'd  be  to  call  ye  matey ! 
Ye  fawning,  flattering  slaves  I  hate  ye  : 

■    Mad,  harum-scarum ! 
If  rags  and  tatters  under-rate  me. 
Free  still  I'll  wear  'em. 


96  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE, 

But  hang  all  sorrows,  now  I'll  bilk  'em ; 
What's  past  shall  go  so :  time  that  shall  come. 
Or  bad,  or  worse,  or  how  it  will  come, 

I'll  ne'er  despair ; 
Poor  as  I  am,  friends  shall  be  welcome 

As  rich  men's  are. 

So  from  my  heart,  old  friend,  I'll  greet  ye  : 
No  outside  brags  shall  ever  cheat  ye ; 
Wi'  what  I  have,  wi'  such  I'll  treat  ye, 

Ye  may  believe  me ; 
I'll  shake  your  rags  whene'er  I  meet  ye, 

If  ye  deceive  me. 

So  mind  ye,  friend,  what's  what,  I  send  it : 
My  letter's  plain,  and  plain  I'll  end  it: 
Bad's  bad  enough,  but  worse  won't  mend  it ; 

So  I'll  be  happy,  ® 

And  while  I've  sixpence  left  I'll  spend  it 

In  cheering  nappy. 


FAMILIAR  EPISTLE.  97 

A  hearty  health  shall  crown  my  story  : — 
Dear,  native  England !  I  adore  ye ; 
Britons,  may  ye  with  friends  before  ye 

Ne'er  want  a  quart. 
To  drink  your  king  and  country's  glory 

Wi'  upright  heart ! 

POSTSCRIPT. 

I've  oft  meant  tramping  o'er  to  see  ye ; 
But,  d— d  old  Fortune,  (God  forgi'e  me !) 
She's  so  cross-grain'd  and  forked  wi'  me. 

Be  e'er  so  willing, 
With  all  my  jingling  powers  'tint  i*  me 

To  scheme  a  shilling. 

And  Poverty,  with  cursed  rigour. 
Spite  of  industry's  utmost  vigour, 
Dizens  me  out  in  such  a  figure 

I'm  sham'd  being  seen ; 
'Sides  my  old  shoon,  (poor  Muse,  ye  twig  her,) 

Wait  roads  being  clean. 

JF 


98  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE. 

Then  here  wind-bound  till  Fate's  confeir'd  on't, 
I  wait  ye,  friend ;  and  take  my  word  on't, 
I'll,  spite  of  fate,  scheme  such  a  hoard  on't, 

As  we  won't  lack  : 
So  no  excuses  shall  be  heard  on't. 

Yours,  random  Jack. 


THE  HARVEST  MORNING. 


Cocks  wake  the  early  morn  with  many  a  crow  ; 
Loud  striking  village  clock  has  counted  four ; 
The  labouring  rustic  hears  his  restless  foe. 
And  weary,  of  his  pains  complaining  sore, 
Hobbles  to  fetch  his  horses  from  the  moor : 
Some  busy  'gin  to  team  the  loaded  com 
Which  night  throng'd  round  the  barn's  becrowded 

door. 
Such  plenteous  scenes  the  farmer's  yard  adorn. 
Such  noisy,  busy  toils  now  mark  the  harvest  morn. 


THE  HARVEST  MORNING.  .  99 

The  bird-boy's  pealing  horn  is  loudly  blow'd ; 
The  waggons  jostle  on  with  rattling  sound; 
And  hogs  and  geese  now  throng  the  dusty  road, 
Grunting  and  gabbling,  in  contention,  round 
The  barley  ears  that  litter  on  the  ground. 
What  printing  traces  mark  the  waggon's  way ; 
What  dusty  bustling  wakens  echo  round ; 
How  drive  the  sun's  warm  beams  the  mist  away ; 
How  labour  sweats  and  toils,  and  dreads  the  sultry 
day! 

His  scythe  the  mower  o'er  his  shoulder  leans. 
And  whetting,  jars  with  sharp  and  tinkling  sound. 
Then  sweeps  again  'mong  corn  and  crackling  beans. 
And  swath  by  swath  flops  lengthening  o'er  the 

ground ; 
While  'neath  some  friendly  heap,  snug  shelter'd 

roimd 
From  spoiling  sun,  lies  hid  the  heart's  delight; 
And  hearty  soaks  oft  hand  the  bottle  round. 


100  THE  HARVEST  MORNING. 

Their  toils  pursuing  with  redoubled  might — 
Great  praise  to  him  be  due  that  brought  its  birth  to 
light. 

Upon  the  waggon  now,  with  eager  bound, 
The  lusty  picker  whirls  the  rustling  sheaves ; 
Or,  resting  ponderous  creaking  fork  aground. 
Boastful  at  once  whole  shocks  of  barley  heaves  : 
The  loading  boy  revengeful  inly  grieves 
To  find  his  unmatch'd  strength  and  power  decay ; 
The  barley  horn  his  garments  interweaves  ; 
Smarting  and  sweating  'neath  the  sultry  day, 
With  muttering  curses  stung,  he  mauls  the  heaps 
away. 

A  motley  group  the  clearing  field  surrounds  : 
Sons  of  humanity,  oh  ne'er  deny 
The  humble  gleaner  entrance  in  your  grounds ; 
Winter's  sad  cold,  and  Poverty  are  nigh. 
Grudge  no  I  from  Providence  the  scant  supply  : 


THE  HARVEST  MORNING.  101 

You'll  never  miss  it  from  your  ample  store. 
Who  gives  denial, — harden'd,  hungry  hound, — 
May  never  blessings  crowd  his  hated  door  ! 
But  he  shall  never  lack,  that  giveth  to  the  poor. 

Ah,  lovely  Emma !  mingling  with  the  rest. 
Thy  beauties  blooming  in  low  life  unseen, 
Thy  rosy  cheeks,  thy  sweetly  swelling  breast ; 
But  ill  it  suits  thee  in  the  stubs  to  glean. 
O  Poverty  !  how  basely  you  demean 
The  imprison'd  worth  your  rigid  fates  confine ; 
Not  fancied  charms  of  an  Arcadian  queen, 
So  sweet  as  Emma's  real  beauties  shine : 
Had  Fortune  blest,  sweet  girl,  this  lot  had  ne'er 
been  thine. 

The  sun's  increasing  heat  now  mounted  high, 
Refreshment  must  recruit  exhausted  power; 
The  waggon  stops,  the  busy  tool's  thrown  by. 
And  'neath  a  shock's  enjoy'd  the  bevering  hour. 


10'2  THE  HARVEST  MORNING. 

The  bashful  maid,  sweet  health's  engaging  flower, 
Lingering  behind,  o'er  rake  still  blushing  bends; 
And  when  to  take  the  horn  fond  swains  implore, 
With  feign'd  excuses  its  dislike  pretends. 
So  pass  the  bevering  hours,  so  harvest  morning  ends. 

O  rural  life  !  what  charms  thy  meanness  hide; 
What  sweet  descriptions  bards  disdain  to  sing ; 
What  loves,  what  graces  on  thy  plains  abide : 
Oh,  could  I  soar  me  on  the  Muse's  wing, 
What  rifled  charms  should  my  researches  bring ! 
Pleas'd  would  I  wander  where  these  charms 

reside ; 
Of  rural  sports  and  beauties  would  I  sing ; 
Those  beauties.  Wealth,  which  you  in  vain  deride, 
Beauties  of  richest  bloom,  superior  to  your  pride. 


103 


ON  BEAUTY. 


Beauty,  how  changing  and  how  frail ! 

As  skies  in  April  showers, 
Or  as  the  summer's  minute-gales, 

Or  as  the  morning  flowers. 

As  April  skies,  so  beauty  shades ; 

As  summer  gales,  so  beauty  flies; 
As  morning  flower  at  evening  fades, 

So  beauty's  tender  blossom  dies. 


104 


ON  AN  INFANT'S  GRAVE. 


Beneath  the  sod  where  smiling  creep 

The  daisies  into  view, 
The  ashes  of  an  infant  sleep, 

Whose  soul's  as  smiling  too  ; 
Ah !  doubly  happy,  doubly  blest, 

(Had  I  so  happy  been  ! ) 
Recall'd  to  heaven's  eternal  rest. 

Ere  it  knew  how  to  sin. 

Thrice  happy  infant !  great  the  bliss 

Alone  reserv'd  for  thee  ; 
Such  joy  'twas  my  sad  fate  to  miss. 

And  thy  good  luck  to  see  ; 


ON  AN  infant's  GRAVE  105 

For  oh  !  when  all  must  rise  again, 

And  sentence  then  shall  have. 
What  crowds  will  wish  with  me,  in  vain, 

They'd  fiU'd  an  infant's  grave. 


DOLLY'S  MISTAKE; 

OR,   THE   WAYS    OF   THE    WAKE. 


Ere  the  sun  o'er  the  hills,  round  and  red,  'gan  a 
peeping. 

To  beckon  the  chaps  to  their  ploughs. 
Too  thinking  and  restless  aH  night  to  be  sleeping, 

1  brush'd  off  to  milking  my  cows  ; 
To  get  my  jobs  forward,  and  eager  preparing 

To  be  off  in  time  to  the  wake. 
Where  yielding  so  freely  a  kiss  for  a  fairing, 

I  made  a  most  shocking  mistake. 

f3 


106  dolly's  mistake. 

Young  Ralph  met  me  early,  and  off  we  were  steering-, 

I  cuddled  me  close  to  his  side ; 
The  neighbours,  while  passing,  my  fondness  kept 
jeering, 

"  Young  Ralph's  timely  suited !"  they  cried. 
But  he  bid  me  mind  not  their  evil  pretensions, 

"  Fools  mun,"  says  he,  "  talk  for  talk's  sake;" 
And,  kissing  me,  "  Doll,  if  you've  any  'prehensions, 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  my  wench,  you  mistake." 

My  cows  when  we  pass'd  them  kept  booing  and 
mooing. 
In  truth,  but  they  made  me  to  stare ; 
As  much  as  to  say, "  Well,  now,  Dolly,  you're  going, 

Mind  how  you  get  on  at  the  fair." 
While  bidden  "  good  speed"  from  each  gazing  be- 
holder, 
"  Good  journey  away  to  the  wake," 
The  mowers  stopp'd  whetting,  to  look  o'er  tj.eir 
shoulder. 
Saying,  "  Dolly,  don't  make  a  mistake." 


dolly's  mistake.  107 


I  couldn't  but  mind  the  fine  morning  so  charming. 

The  dew-drops  they  glitter' d  like  glass ; 
And  all  o'er  the  meads  were  the  buttercups  swarm- 


ing* 


Like  so  many  suns  in  the  grass : 
I  thought  as  we  pass'd  them,  if  such  a  thing  could 
be. 

What  a  fine  string  of  beads  they  would  make ; 
But  when  I  could  think  of  such  nonsense,  it  would  be 

Because  I  had  made  no  mistake. 

So  on  his  arm  hanging,  with  stories  beguiling. 

Of  what  he  would  buy  me  when  there, 
The  road  cutting  short  with  his  kissing  and  smiling, 

He  'veigl'd  me  off  to  the  fair : 
Such  presents  he  profi'er'd  before  I  could  claim  'em, 

To  keep  while  I  liv'd  for  his  sake. 
And  what  I  lik'd  best,  o'er  and  o'er  begg'd  me  name 
'em, 

That  he  mightn't  go  make  a  mistake. 


108  dolly's  mistake. 

And,  lud,  what  a  crushing  and  crowding  were  wi' 
'em, 

What  noises  are  heard  at  a  fair ; 
Here  some  sell  so  cheap,  as  they'd  even  go  gi'  'em, 

If  conscience  would  take,  they  declare  : 
Some  so  good,  'tis  e'en  worth  more  than  money  to 
buy  'em. 

Fine  gingerbread  nuts  and  plum-cake ; 
For  truth  they  bid  Ralph,  ere  he  treated  me,  try  'em, 

And  then  thei-e  could  be  no  mistake. 

A  sly  Merry  Andrew  was  making  his  speeches. 

With  chaps  and  girls  round  him  a  swarm, 
And,  "  Mind,"  said  he,  fleering,  "  ye  chubby-fac'd 
witches. 

Your  fairings  don't  do  you  some  harm." 
The  hay-cocks  he  nam'd,  in  the  meads  passing  by 'em. 

When  weary  we  came  from  the  wake. 
So  soft,  so  inviting,  for  rest  we  mun  try  'em ; 

What  a  fool  should  I  be  to  mistake. 


DOLLY  S  MISTAKE.  109 

But  promis'd  so  faithful,  behaviour  so  clever, 

Such  gifts  as  Ralph  cramm'd  in  my  hand, 
How  could  I  distrust  of  his  goodness  ?   O  never ! 

And  who  could  his  goodness  withstand  ? 
His  ribbons,  his  fairings,  past  counting,  or  nearly. 

Some  return  when  he  press'd  me  to  make. 
Good    manners   mun   give,  while  he  lov'd  me  so 
dearly : 

Ah !  where  could  I  see  the  mistake  ? 

'Till  dark  night  he  kept  me,  with  fussing  and  lying. 

How  he'd  see  me  safe  home  to  my  cot ; 
Poor  maiden,  so  easy,  so  free  in  complying, 

I  the  showman's  good  caution  forgot : 
All  bye-ways  he  led  me,  'twas  vain  to  dispute  it, 

The  moon  blush'd  for  shame,  naughty  rake  ! 
Behind    a    cloud    sneaking — but   darkness    well 
suited 

His  baseness,  who  caus'd  the  mistake. 


no  DOLLY  S  MISTAKE. 

In  vain  do  I  beg  him  to  wed  and  have  done  wi't, 

So  fair  as  he  promis'd  we  should ; 
We  cou'dn't  do  worse  than  as  how  we've  begun  wi't. 

Let  matters  turn  out  as  they  would : 
But  he's  always  a  talking  'bout  wedding  expenses. 

And  the  wages  he's  gotten  to  take ; 
Too  plain  can  I  see  through  his  evil  pretences. 

Too  late  I  find  out  the  mistake. 

Oh,  what  mun  I  do  with  my  mother  reprovin'. 

Since  she  will  do  nothing  but  chide  ? 
For  when  old  transgressors  have  been  in  the  oven, 

They  know  where  the  young  ones  may  hide. 
In  vain  I  seek  pity  with  plaints  and  despairings, 

Always  ding'd  on  the  nose  with  the  wake : 
Young  maidens !  be  cautious  who  give  you  your 
fairings ; 

Ye  see  what  attends  a  mistake. 


Ill 


ON  CRUELTY. 


Compassion  sighs,  and  feels,  and  weeps, 

Retracing  every  pain 
Inhuman  man,  in  vengeance,  heaps 

On  all  the  lower  train. 

Ah,  Pity !  oft  thy  heart  has  bled. 

As  galling  now  it  bleeds ; 
And  tender  tears  thy  eyes  have  shed 

To  witness  cruel  deeds. 

The  lash  that  weal'd  poor  Dobbin's  hide, 
The  strokes  that  cracking  fall 

On  dogs,  dumb  cringing  by  thy  side — 
Ah!  thou  hast  felt  them  all. 


112  ON  CRUELTY. 

The  burthen'd  asses,  'mid  the  laugh 
To  see  them  whipp'd,  would  move 

Thy  soul  to  breathe  in  their  behalf 
Humanity  and  love. 

E'en  'plaining  flies  to  thee  have  spoke, 

Poor  trifles  as  they  be ; 
And  oft  the  spider's  web  thou'st  broke, 

To  set  the  captive  free. 

The  pilfering  mouse,  entrapp'd  and  cag'd 

Within  the  wiry  grate, 
Thy  pleading  powers  has  oft  engag'd 

To  mourn  its  rigid  fate. 

How  beat  thy  breast  with  conscious  woes, 

To  see  the  sparrows  die : 
Poor  little  thieves  of  many  foes, 

Their  food  they  dearly  buy. 


ON  CRUELTY.  H3 

Where  nature  groans,  where  nature  cries 

Beneath  the  butcher's  knife, 
How  vain,  how  many  were  thy  sighs. 

To  save  such  guiltless  life. 

And  ah !  that  most  inhuman  plan. 

Where  reason's  name's  ador'd, 
Unfriendly  treatment — man  to  man — 

Thy  tears  have  oft  deplor'd. 

Nor  wise,  nor  good  shall  e'er  deride 

The  tear  in  Pity's  eye; 
Though  laugh'd  to  scorn  by  senseless  pride, 

From  them  it  meets  a  sigh. 


114 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  BEATJTIFTTL 
YOUNG  LADY. 


Ye  meaner  beauties  cease  your  pride, 
Where  borrow'd  charms  adorn ; 

Here  nature  aid  of  art  defied, 
And  blossom'd  all  its  own. 

The  rose  your  paint  but  idly  feigns, 
Bloom'd  nature's  brightest  dyes ; 

The  gems  your  wealthy  pride  sustains, 
Were  natives  of  her  eyes. 

• 

But  what  avails  superior  charms  * 

To  boast  of  when  in  power. 

Since,  subject  to  a  thousand  harms, 
They  perish  like  a  flower. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY.         115 

Alas  !  we've  nought  to  boast  of  here, 

And  less  to  make  us  proud ; 
The  brightest  sun  but  rises  clear 

To  set  behind  a  cloud. 

Those  charms  which  every  heart  subdue, 

Must  all  their  powers  resign ; 
Those  eyes,  like  suns,  too  bright  to  view, 

Have  now  forgot  to  shine. 

Her  beauties  so  untimely  fell, 

AVliat  mortal  would  be  proud  ? 
The  day  return'd,  and  found  her  well, 

But  left  her  in  her  shroud. 

To  day  the  blossom  buds  and  blooms. 

But  who  a  day  can  trust  ? 
Since  the  to-morrow,  when  it  comes. 

Condemns  it  to  the  dust. 


116 


FALLING  LEAVES. 


Hail,  falling  leaves!  that  patter  round, 

Admonishers  and  friends ; 
jReflection  wakens  at  the  sound — 

So,  Life,  thy  pleasure  ends. 

How  frail  the  bloom,  how  short  the  stay, 

That  terminates  us  all ! 
To  day  we  flourish  green  and  gay, 

Like  leaves  to-morrow  fall. 

Alas !  how  short  is  fourscore  years, 
Life's  utmost  stretch, — a  span ; 

And  shorter  still,  when  past,  appears 
The  vain,  vain  life  of  man. 


FALLING  LEAVES.  117 

These  falling  leaves  once  flaunted  high, 

O  pride !  how  vain  to  trust : 
Now  wither'd  on  the  ground  they  lie, 

And  mingled  with  the  dust. 

So  death  serves  all — and  wealth  and  pride 

Must  all  their  pomp  resign  ; 
E'en  kings  shall  lay  their  crowns  aside, 

To  mix  their  dust  with  mine. 

The  leaves,  how  once  they  cloth' d  the  trees, 

None's  left  behind  to  tell ; 
The  branch  is  naked  to  the  breeze  ; 

We  know  not  whence  they  fell. 

A  few  more  years,  and  I  the  same 

As  they  are  now,  shall  be, 
With  nothing  left  to  tell  my  name. 

Or  answer,  "  Who  was  he?" 


1 1  8  FALLING  LEAVES. 

Green  turf's  allow'd  forgotten  heap 

Is  all  that  I  shall  have. 
Save  that  the  little  daisies  creep 

To  deck  my  humble  grave. 


THE  CONTRAST  OF  BEAUTY  AND 
VIRTUE. 


"  Beauty's  a  transitory  joy, 

"  But  Virtue's  sweets  shall  never  cloy." 


As  o'er  the  gay  pasture  went  rocking  a  clown, 
A  gay,  gaudy  butter-cup's  gold-fringed  gown 

Engag'd  his  attention,  as  passing  her  by ; 
And  rudely  to  gain  her  he  stooped  adovvii, 

Its  beauty  so  dazzled  his  eye. 


THE  CONTRAST,  119 

By  outside  appearance  the  senseless  are  caught. 
But  Beauty's  gay  triumph  is  foolish  and  short ; 

With  nothing  to  gain  the  attention  beside, 
Possession  soon  sickens — and  fleet  as  a  thought, 

Beauty  slips  us  forgotten  aside. 

As  snifting  and  snufting  the  clodhopper  goes, 
And  finding  no  sweetness  for  charming  his  nose, 

Frail  Beauty's  delusion  soon  wearied  his  eye ; 
And  away  the  gay  flowret  he  heedlessly  throws, 

To  wither  unnotic'd,  and  die. 

Ye  young,  giddy  wenches  !  gay  butter-cups !  mind, 
So  tempting  your  dresses,  your  nature  so  kind. 

Virgin  beauty  once  tasted,  no  longer  endures ; 
The  charm  that  should  please  us,  fair  Virtue,  re- 
signed, 

A  butter-cup's  fortune  is  yours. 


120  THE  CONTRAST. 

Let  modesty's  sweetness  your  blossoms  adorn, 
Be  Virtue  your  guard,  as  the  rose  has  her  thorn; 

Then  as  chemists  the  sweets  of  the  roses  secure, — 
When  Beauty's  no  more,  still  to  please  is  your  own, 

For  Virtue's  charms  ever  endure. 


TO  AN  APRIL  DAISY. 


Welcome,  old  comrade  !  peeping  once  again : 
Our  meeting  'minds  me  of  a  pleasant  hour : 

Spring's  pencil  pinks  thee  in  that  blushy  stain, 
And  Summer  glistens  in  thy  tinty  flower. 

Hail,  beauty's  gem  !  disdaining  time  nor  place ; 

Carelessly  creeping  on  the  dunghill's  side ; 
Demeanour's  softness  in  thy  crimpled  face 

Decks  thee  in  beauties  unattain'd  by  pride. 


TO  AN  APRIL  DAISY.  121 

Hail,  Venturer !  once  again  that  fearless  here 
Encampeth  on  the  hoar  hill's  sunny  side ; 

Spring's  early  messenger !  thou'rt  doubly  dear; 
And  winter's  frost  by  thee  is  well  supplied. 

Now  winter's  frowns  shall  cease  their  pelting  rage, 
But  winter's  woes  I  need  not  tell  to  thee ; 

Far  better  luck  thy  visits  well  presage. 
And  be  it  thine  and  mine  that  luck  to  see. 

Ah,  may  thy  smiles  confirm  the  hopes  they  tell ; 

To  see  thee  frost- bit  I'd  be  griev'd  at  heart ; 
I  meet  thee  happy,  and  I  wish  thee  well. 

Till  ripening  summer  summons  us  to  part. 

Then  like  old  mates,  or  two  who've  neighbours  been. 
We'll  part,  in  hopes  to  meet      :>ther  year; 

And  o'er  thy  exit  from  this  changing  scene. 
We'll  mix  our  wishes  in  a  tokening  tear. 

G 


n'z 


TO  HOPE. 


Come,  flattering  Hope !  now  woes  distress  me, 

Thy  flattery  I  desire  again ; 
Again  rely  on  thee  to  bless  me, 

To  find  thy  vainness  doubly  vain. 

Though  disappointments  vex  and  fetter, 
And  jeering  whisper  thou  art  vain ; 

Still  must  I  rest  on  thee  for  better, 
Still  hope — and  be  deceiv'd  again. 

I  can't  but  listen  to  thy  prattle ; 

I  still  must  hug  thee  to  my  breast : 
Like  weaning  child  that's  lost  its  rattle, 

Without  my  toy  1  cannot  rest. 


123 


AN  EFFUSION  TO  POESY, 

ON    RECEIVING   A   DAMP    FROM   A   GENTEEL   OPINIONIST   IN 

POETRY,   OF   SOME   SWAY,   AS    I   AM    TOLD,   IN 

THE  LITERARY  WORLD. 


Despis'd,  unskiU'd,  or  how  I  will, 

Sweet  Poesy  !  I'll  love  thee  still ; 

Vain  (cheering  comfort ! )  though  I  be, 

t  still  must  love  thee,  Poesy. 

A  poor,  rude  clown,  and  what  of  that  ? 

I  cannot  help  the  will  of  fate, 

A  lowly  clown  although  I  be ; 

Nor  can  I  help  it  loving  thee. 

Still  must  I  love  thee,  sweetest  charm! 

Still  must  my  soul  in  raptures  warm ; 

Still  must  my  rudeness  pluck  the  flower, 

That's  plucked  in  an  evil  hour, 


124  AN  EFFUSION  TO  POESY. 

While  Learning  scowls  her  scornful  brow, 
And  damps  my  soul — I  know  not  how. 
Labour !  'cause  thou'rt  mean  and  poor, 
Learning  spurns  thee  from  her  door ; 
But  despise  me  as  she  will, 
Poesy !  I  love  thee  still. 
When  on  pillow'd  thorns  I  weep, 
And  vainly  stretch  me  down  to  sleep ; 
Then,  thou  charm  from  heav'n  above, 
Comfort's  cordial  dost  thou  prove : 
Then,  engaging  Poesy  ! 
Then  how  sweet  to  talk  with  thee. 
And  be  despis'd,  or  how  I  will, 
1  cannot  help  but  love  thee  still. 
Endearing  charm  !  vain  though  I  be, 
I  still  must  love  thee,  Poesy. 
Still  must  I !  ay,  I  can't  refrain  : 
Damp'd,  despis'd,  or  scornd  again, 
With  vain,  unhallowed  liberty 
Still  must  1  sing  thee,  Poesy. 


AN  EFFUSION  TO  POESY.  125 

And  poor,  and  vain,  and  press'd  beneath 
Oppression's  scorn  although  I  be, 
Still  will  I  bind  my  simple  wreath, 
Still  will  I  love  thee,  Poesy. 


THE  POET'S  WISH. 


A  WISH  will  rise  in  every  breast, 

For  something  more  than  what's  possess'd ; 

Some  trifle  still,  or  more  or  less, 

To  make  complete  one's  happiness. 

And,  faith !  a  wish  will  oft  incline 

To  harbour  in  this  breast  of  mine ; 

And  oft  old  Fortune  hears  my  case, 

Told  plain  as  nose  upon  her  face. 

But  vainly  do  we  beggars  plead. 

Although  not  ask'd  before  we  need : 


l<26  THE  POET  S  WISH. 

i  Old  Fortune,  like  sly  Farmer  Dapple, 

{   ^Vhere  there's  an  orchard  flings  her  apple ; 

i 

I    But  where  there's  no  return  to  make  ye, 
She  turns  her  nose  up,  "  Deuce  may  take  ye." 
So  rich  men  get  their  wealth  at  will, 
And  beggars — why,  they're  beggars  still. 

But  'tis  not  thoughts  of  being  rich 
That  make  my  wishing  spirit  itch ; 
'Tis  just  an  independent  fate. 
Betwixt  the  little  and  the  great ; 
No  out-o'-the-way  nor  random  wish; 
No  ladle  crav'd  for  silver  dish : 
'Tis  but  a  comfortable  seat. 
While  without  work  both  ends  would  meet. 
'TIS  just  get  hand  to  mouth  with  ease, 
And  read,  and  study  as  I  please  : 
A  little  garret,  warm  and  high. 
As  loves  the  Muse  sublime  to  fly. 


THE  poet's  wish.  1^7 

With  all  my  friends  encircled  round 
In  golden  letters,  richly  bound ; 
Dear  English  poets !  luckless  fellows, 
As  born  to  such,  so  fate  will  tell  us  ; 
Might  I  their  flow'ry  themes  peruse, 
And  be  as  happy  in  my  Muse, 
Like  them  sublimely  high  to  soar, 
Without  their  fate — so  cursed  poor ! 
While  one  snug  room,  not  over  small, 
Contain'd  my  necessary  all ; 
And  night  and  day  left  me  secure 
'Mong  books,  my  chiefest  furniture ; 
With  littering  papers,  many  a  bit 
Scrawl'd  by  the  Muse  in  fancied  fit. 
And  curse  upon  that  routing  jade, 
My  territories  to  invade, 
Who  finds  me  out  in  evil  hour. 
To  brush,  and  clean,  and  scrub,  and  scour ; 
And  with  a  dreaded  brush  or  broom 
Disturbs  my  learned  lumber-room. 


^28  THE  poet's  WISH. 

Such  busy  things  I  hate  to  see, 
Such  troublers  ne'er  shall  trouble  me  : 
Let  dust  keep  gathering  on  the  ground, 
And  roping  cobwebs  dangle  round ; 
Let  spiders  weave  their  webs  at  will ; 
Would  cash,  when  wanted,  pockets  till. 
To  pint  it  just  at  my  desire, 
My  drooping  Muse  with  ale  inspire. 
And  fetch  at  least  a  roll  of  bread. 
Without  a  debt  to  run  or  dread. 
Such  comforts,  would  they  were  but  mine, 
To  something  more  I'd  ne'er  incline  : 
But  happiest  then  of  happy  clowns, 

I'd  sing  all  cares  away ; 
And  pitying  moaarchs  capp'd  with  crowns, 

I'd  see  more  joys  than  they. 

Thus  wish'd  a  bard,  whom  fortune  scorns. 
To  find  a  rose  among  the  thorns ; 


THE  poet's  wish.  129 

And  musing  o'er  each  heavy  care. 
His  pen  stuck  useless  in  his  hair. 
His  muse  was  dampt,  nor  fir'd  his  soul, 
And  still  unearn'd  his  penny  roll ; 
Th'  unfinish'd  labours  of  his  head 
Were  listless  on  the  table  spread ; 
When  lo  !  to  bid  him  hope  no  more, 
A  rap — an  earthquake !  jars  the  door ; 
His  heart  drops  in  his  shoes  with  doubt : 
"  What  fiend  has  found  my  lodging  out?" 
Poor  trembling  tenants  of  the  quill ! — 
"  Here,  sir,  I  bring  my  master's  bill." — 
He  heav'd  a  sigh,  and  scratch'd  his  head, 
And  credit's  mouth  with  promise  fed : 
Then  sat  in  terror  down  again, 
Invok'd  the  Muse,  and  scrigg'd  a  strain ; 
A  trifling  something  glad  to  get, 
To  earn  a  dinner,  and  discharge  the  debt. 


gs 


130 


SUMMER  EVENING. 


The  sinking  sun  is  taking  leave, 

And  sweetly  gilds  the  edge  of  Eve, 

While  huddling  clouds  of  purple  dye, 

Gloomy  hang  the  western  sky. 

Crows  crowd  croaking  over  head, 

Hastening  to  the  woods  to  bed. 

Cooing  sits  the  lonely  dove. 

Calling  home  her  absent  love. 

With  '*  Kirchup!  kirchup !"  'mong  the  wheats. 

Partridge  distant  partridge  greets ; 

Beckoning  hints  to  those  that  roam, 

That  guide  the  squander'd  covey  home. 

Swallows  check  their  winding  flight. 

And  twittering  on  the  chimney  light. 


SUMMER  EVENING.  131 

Round  the  pond  the  martins  flirt. 
Their  snowy  breasts  bedaub'd  with  dirt, 
While  the  mason,  'neath  the  slates, 
Each  moitar-bearing  bird  awaits  : 
By  art  untaught,  each  labouring  spouse 
Curious  daubs  his  hanging  house. 
Bats  flit  by  in  hood  and  cowl ; 
Through  the  barn-hole  pops  the  owl ; 
From  the  hedge,  in  drowsy  hum, 
Heedless  buzzing  beetles  bum, 
Haunting  every  bushy  place, 
Flopping  in  the  labourer's  face. 
Now  the  snail  hath  made  his  ring ; 
And  the  moth  with  snowy  wing 
Circles  round  in  winding  whirls, 
Through  sweet  evening's  sprinkled  pearls, 
On  each  nodding  rush  besprent; 
Dancing  on  from  bent  to  bent : 
Now  to  downy  grasses  clung, 
Resting  for  a  while  he's  hung ; 


132  SUMMER  EVENING. 

Then,  to  ferry  o'er  the  stream. 
Vanishing  as  flies  a  dream ; 
Playful  still  his  hours  to  keep, 
Till  his  time  has  come  to  sleep ; 
In  tall  grass,  by  fountain  head, 
Weary  then  he  drops  to  bed. 
From  the  hay-cock's  moisten'd  heaps, 
Startled  frogs  take  vaunting  leaps; 
And  along  the  shaven  mead, 
Jumping  travellers,  they  proceed : 
Quick  the  dewy  grass  divides. 
Moistening  sweet  their  speckled  sides  ; 
From  the  grass  or  flowret's  cup, 
Quick  the  dew-drop  bounces  up. 
Now  the  blue  fog  creeps  along. 
And  the  bird's  forgot  his  song : 
Flowers  now  sleep  within  their  hoods ; 
Daisies  button  into  buds ; 
From  soiling  dew  the  butter-cup 
Shuts  his  golden  jewels  up ; 


SUMMER  EVENING.  133 


And  the  rose  and  woodbine  they 
Wait  again  the  smiles  of  day. 
'Neath  the  willow's  wavy  boughs, 
Dolly,  singing,  milks  her  cows ; 
While  the  brook,  as  bubbling  by. 
Joins  in  murmuring  melody. 
Dick  and  Dob,  with  jostling  joll. 
Homeward  drag  the  rumbling  roll ; 
Whilom  Ralph,  for  Doll  to  wait, 
Lolls  him  o'er  the  pasture  gate. 
Swains  to  fold  their  sheep  begin ; 
Dogs  loud  barking  drive  them  in. 
Hedgers  now  along  the  road 
Homeward  bend  beneath  their  load ; 
And  from  the  long  funow'd  seams, 
Ploughmen  loose  their  weary  teams  : 
Ball,  with  urging  lashes  weal'd. 
Still  so  slow  to  drive  a-field. 
Eager  blundering  from  the  plough. 
Wants  no  whip  to  drive  him  now ; 


134  SUMMER  EVENING 

At  the  stable-door  he  stands, 
Looking  round  for  friendly  hands 
To  loose  the  door  its  fast'ning  pin, 
And  let  him  with  his  corn  begin. 
Round  the  yard,  a  thousand  ways, 
Beasts  in  expectation  gaze. 
Catching  at  the  loads  of  hay 
Passing  fodd'rers  tug  away. 
Hogs  with  grumbling,  deaf'ning  noise. 
Bother  round  the  server  boys ; 
And,  far  and  near,  the  motley  group 
Anxious  claim  their  suppering-up. 
From  the  rest,  a  blest  release. 
Gabbling  home,  the  quarreling  geese 
Seek  their  warm  straw-litter'd  shed. 
And,  waddling,  prate  away  to  bed. 
'Nighted  by  unseen  delay. 
Poking  hens,  that  lose  their  way, 
On  the  hovel's  rafters  rise, 
Slumbering  there,  the  fox's  prize. 


i 


SUMMER  EVENING.  135 

Now  the  cat  has  ta'en  her  seat. 
With  her  tail  curl'd  round  her  feet ; 
Patiently  she  sits  to  watch 
Sparrows  fighting  on  the  thatch. 
Now  Doll  brings  th'  expected  pails, 
And  dogs  begin  to  wag  their  tails ; 
With  strokes  and  pats  they're  welcom'd  in. 
And  they  with  looking  wants  begin  : 
*)  Slove  in  the  milk-pail  brimming  o'er, 
She  pops  their  dish  behind  the  door. 
Prone  to  mischief  boys  are  met, 
'Neath  the  eaves  the  ladder's  set, 
Sly  they  climb  in  softest  tread, 
To  catch  the  sparrow  on  his  bed ; 
Massacred,  O  cruel  pride ! 
Dash'd  against  the  ladder's  side. 
Curst  barbarians  !  pass  me  by ; 
Come  not,  Turks,  my  cottage  nigh ; 
Sure  my  sparrows  are  my  own. 
Let  ye  then  my  birds  alone. 


136  SUMMER  EVENING. 

Come,  poor  birds  !  from  foes  severe 
Fearless  come,  you're  vv^elcome  here ; 
My  heart  yearns  at  fate  like  yours, 
A  sparrow's  life's  as  sweet  as  ours. 
Hardy  clowns  !  grudge  not  the  wheat 
Which  hunger  forces  birds  to  eat : 
Your  blinded  eyes,  worst  foes  to  you, 
Can't  see  the  good  which  sparrows  do. 
Did  not  poor  birds  with  watching  rounds 
Pick  up  the  insects  from  your  grounds. 
Did  they  not  tend  your  rising  grain, 
You  then  might  sow  to  reap  in  vain. 
Thus  Providence,  right  understood, 
Whose  end  and  aim  is  doing  good, 
Sends  nothing  here  without  its  use ; 
Though  ignorance  loads  it  with  abuse, 
And  fools  despise  the  blessing  sent, 
And  mock  the  Giver's  good  intent.— 
O  God,  let  me  what's  good  pursue, 
Let  me  the  same  to  others  do 


SUMMER  EVENING.  137 

As  I'd  have  others  do  to  me, 
And  learn  at  least  humanity. 

Dark  and  darker  glooms  the  sky ; 
Sleep  'gins  close  the  labourer's  eye  : 
Dobson  leaves  his  greensward  seat, 
Neighbours  where  they  neighbours  meet 
Crops  to  praise,  and  work  in  hand, 
And  battles  tell  from  foreign  land. 
While  his  pipe  is  puflSng  out. 
Sue  he's  putting  to  the  rout. 
Gossiping,  who  takes  delight 
To  shool  her  knitting  out  at  night. 
And  back-bite  neighbours  'bout  the  town — 
Who's  got  new  caps,  and  who  a  gown. 
And  many  a  thing,  her  evil  eye 
Can  see  they  don't  come  honest  by. 
Chattering  at  a  neighbour's  house. 
She  hears  call  out  her  frowning  spouse ; 


b 


138  SUMMER  EVENING. 

Prepared  to  start,  she  soodles  home, 
Her  knitting  twirling  o'er  her  thumb, 
As,  loth  to  leave,  afraid  to  stay, 
She  bawls  her  story  all  the  way  : 
The  tale  so  fraught  with  'ticing  charms, 
Her  apron  folded  o'er  her  arms, 
She  leaves  the  unfinished  tale,  in  pain. 
To  end  as  evening  comes  again ; 
And  in  the  cottage  gangs  with  dread. 
To  meet  old  Dobson's  timely  frown, 
Who  grumbling  sits,  prepar'd  for  bed, 
While  she  stands  chelping  'bout  the  town. 

The  night-wind  now,  with  sooty  wings. 
In  the  cotter's  chimney  sings ; 
Now,  as  stretching  o'er  the  bed. 
Soft  I  raise  my  drowsy  head. 
Listening  to  the  ushering  charms, 
That  shake  the  elm  tree's  mossy  arms  : 


SUMMER  EVENING.  139 


Till  sweet  slumbers  stronger  creep, 
Deeper  darkness  stealing  round. 

Then,  as  rock'd,  I  sink  to  sleep, 
'Mid  the  wild  wind's  lulling  sound. 


SUMMER  MORNING. 


The  cocks  have  now  the  morn  foretold. 

The  sun  again  begins  to  peep ; 
The  shepherd,  whistling  to  his  fold. 

Unpens  and  frees  the  captive  sheep. 

O'er  pathless  plains,  at  early  hours, 

The  sleepy  rustic  sloomy  goes ; 
The  dews,  brush'd  off  from  grass  and  flowers, 

Bemoistening  sop  his  harden'd  shoes  ; 


140  SUMMER  MORNING. 

For  every  leaf  that  forms  a  shade, 
And  every  flowret's  silken  top, 

And  every  shivering  bent  and  blade, 
Stoops,  bowing  with  a  diamond  drop. 

But  soon  shall  fly  those  pearly  drops, 
The  red,  round  sun  advances  higher ; 

And  stretching  o'er  the  mountain  tops, 
Is  gilding  sweet  the  village  spire. 

Again  the  bustling  maiden  seeks 
Her  cleanly  pail,  and  eager  now, 

Rivals  the  morn  with  rosy  cheeks. 
And  hastens  off  to  milk  her  cow ; 

While  echo  tells  of  Colin  near. 

Blithe,  whistling  o'er  the  misty  hills  : 

The  powerful  magic  fills  her  ear, 

And  through  her  beating  bosom  thrills. 


SUMMER  MORNING.  141 

'Tis  sweet  to  meet  the  morning  breeze, 

Or  list  the  giggling  of  the  brook; 
Or  stretch'd  beneath  the  shade  of  trees 

Peruse  and  pause  on  nature's  book ; 

When  nature  every  sweet  prepares 

To  entertain  our  wish'd  delay, — 
The  images  which  morning  wears, 

The  wakening  charms  of  early  day  ! 

'     Now  let  me  tread  the  meadow  paths, 

While  glittering  dew  the  ground  illumes, 
As,  sprinkled  o'er  the  withering  swaths, 
Their  moisture  shrinks  in  sweet  perfumes ; 

And  hear  the  beetle  sound  his  horn ; 

And  hear  the  skylark  whistling  nigh, 
Sprung  from  his  bed  of  tufted  corn, 

A  hailing  minstrel  in  the  sky. 


14'2  SUMMER  MORNING. 

First  sunbeam,  calling  night  away, 
To  see  how  sweet  thy  summons  seems, 

Split  by  the  willow's  wavy  grey, 

Aud  sweetly  dancing  on  the  streams  : 

How  fine  the  spider's  web  is  spun, 

Unnoticed  to  vulgar  eyes; 
Its  silk  thread  glittering  in  the  sun, 

Art's  bungling  vanity  defies. 

Roaming  while  the  dewy  fields 
'Neath  their  morning  burthen  lean ; 

While  its  crop  my  searches  shields. 
Sweet  I  scent  the  blossomed  bean  : 

Making  oft  remarking  stops ; 

Watching  tiny,  nameless  things, 
Climb  the  grass's  spiry  tops. 

Ere  they  try  their  gauzy  wings. 


SUMMER  MORNING.  143 

So  emerging  into  light, 

Froto  the  ignorant  and  vain. 
Fearful  Genius  takes  her  flight, 
p        Skimming  o'er  the  lowly  plain. 

Now  in  gay,  green,  glossy  coat, 

On  the  shivering,  benty  baulk, 
The  free  grasshopper  chirps  his  note, 

Bounding  on  from  stalk  to  stalk. 

And  the  bee  at  early  hours 

Sips  the  tawny  bean's  perfumes ; 
While  butterflies  infest  the  flowers. 

Just  to  shew  their  glossy  plumes. 

So  industry  oft  seeks  the  sweet, 
I         Which  weary  labour  ought  to  gain ; 
And  oft  the  bliss  the  idle  meets, 

« 

And  heaven  bestows  the  bliss  in  vain. 


144  SUMMER  MORNING. 

Pleas'd,  I  list  the  rural  themes 

Heartening  up  the  ploughman's  toil ; 

Urging  on  the  jingling  teams, 
As  they  turn  the  mellow  soil. 

Industry's  care  abounds  again, 

As  now  the  peace  of  night  is  gone ; 

Many  a  murmur  wakes  the  plain, 
Many  a  waggon  rumbles  on. 

Tlie  swallow  wheels  his  circling  flight. 
And  o'er  the  water's  surface  skims  ; 

Then  on  the  cottage  chimney  lights, 

And  twittering  chants  his  morning  hymns. 

Station'd  high,  a  towering  height, 

On  the  sun-gilt  weathercock. 
Now  the  jackdaw  takes  his  flight, 

frighted  by  the  striking  clock. 


SUMMER  MORNING,  145 

Snug  the  weary,  watching  thrush, 

Sits  to  prune  her  speckled  breast, 
Where  the  woodbine,  round  the  bush 

Weaving,  hides  her  mortar'd  nest ; 

Till  the  cows,  with  hungry  low. 

Pick  the  rank  grass  from  her  bower ; 

Startled  then — dead  leaves  below 
Quick  receive  the  pattering  shower. 

Now  the  scythe  the  morn  salutes, 

In  the  meadow  tinkling  soon ; 
While  on  mellow-tootling  flutes 

Sweetly  breathes  the  shepherd's  tune. 

Where  the  bank  the  stream  o'erlooks, 

And  the  wreathing  worms  are  found, 

Anglers  sit  to  bait  their  hooks, 

On  the  hill  with  wild  thyme  crown'd. 

H 


146  SUMMER  MORNING. 

While  the  treach'rous  watching  stork 
With  the  heedless  gudgeon  flies. 

Bobbing  sinks  the  vanish'd  cork, 
And  the  roach  becomes  a  prize. 

'Neath  the  black-thorn's  stunted  bush, 
Cropp'd  by  wanton  oxen  down, 

Whistling  o'er  each  culling  rush. 
Cow-boys  plat  a  rural  crown. 

As  slow  the  hazy  mists  retire, 

Crampt  circle's  more  distinctly  seen ; 

Thin  scatter'd  huts,  and  neighbouring  spire. 
Drop  in  to  stretch  the  bounded  scene. 

Brisk  winds  the  lighten'd  branches  shake, 
By  pattering,  plashing  drops  confess'd ; 

And,  where  oaks  dripping  shade  the  lake. 
Print  crimpling  dimples  on  its  breast. 


SUMM£R  MORNING.  147 

The  misted  brook,  its  edges  reek ; 

Sultry  Noon  is  drawing  on ; 
The  east  has  lost  its  ruddy  streak, 

And  Morning  sweets  are  almost  gone. 

Now  as  Morning  takes  her  leave. 
And  while  swelter'd  nature  mourns, 

Let  me,  waiting  soothing  Eve, 
Seek  my  cot  till  she  returns. 


D AWNINGS  OF  GENIUS. 


Genius  !  a  pleasing  rapture  of  the  mind, 
A  kindling  warmth  to  learning  unconfin'd, 
Glows  in  each  breast,  flutters  in  every  vein, 
From  art's  refinement  to  th'  uncultur'd  swain. 


148  DAWNINGS  OF  GENIUS. 

Hence  is  that  warmth  the  lowly  shepherd  proves. 

Pacing  his  native  fields  and  willow  groves ; 

Hence  is  that  joy,  when  every  scene  unfolds. 

Which  taste  endears  and  latest  memory  holds ; 

Hence  is  that  sympathy  his  heart  attends, 

When  bush  and  tree  companions  seem  and  friends ; 

Hence  is  that  fondness  from  his  soul  sincere. 

That  makes  his  native  place  so  doubly  dear. 

In  those  low  paths  which  Poverty  surrounds, 

The  rough,  rude  ploughman,  off  his  fallow-grounds, 

(That  necessary  tool  of  wealth  and  pride,) 

While  moil'd  and  sweating  by  some  pasture's  side, 

Will  often  stoop  inquisitive  to  trace 

The  opening  beauties  of  a  daisy's  face ; 

Oft  will  he  witness,  with  admiring  eyes, 

The  brook's  sweet  dimples  o'er  the  pebbles  rise ; 

And  often,  bent  as  o'er  some  magic  spell, 

He'll  pause,  and  pick  his  shaped  stone  and  shell : 

Raptures  the  while  his  inward  powers  inflame, 

And  joys  delight  him  which  he  cannot  name; 


DAWNINGS  OF  GENIUS.  149 

Ideas  picture  pleasing  views  to  mind, 
For  which  his  language  can  no  utterance  find ; 
Increasing  beauties,  fresh'ning  on  his  sight, 
Unfold  new  charms,  and  witness  more  delight ; 
So  while  the  present  please,  the  past  decay. 
And  in  each  other,  losing,  melt  away. 
Thus  pausing  wild  on  all  he  saunters  by, 
He  feels  enraptur'd  though  he  knows  not  why ; 
And  hums  and  mutters  o'er  his  joys  in  vain, 
And  dwells  on  something  which  he  can't  explain. 
The  bursts  of  thought  with  which  his  soul's  perplex'd, 
Are  bred  one  moment,  and  are  gone  the  next; 
Yet  still  the  heart  will  kindling  sparks  retain, 
And  thoughts  will  rise,  and  Fancy  strive  again. 
So  have  I  mark'd  the  dying  ember's  light. 
When  on  the  hearth  it  fainted  from  my  sight, 
With  glimmering  glow  oft  redden  up  again, 
And  sparks  crack'd  brightening  into  life,  in  vain ; 
Still  lingering  out  its  kindling  hope  to  rise. 
Till  faint,  and  fainting,  the  last  twinkle  dies. 


150  DAWNINGS  OF  GENIUS. 

Dim  burns  the  soul,  and  throbs  the  fluttering 
heart, 
Its  painful,  pleasing  feelings  to  impart ; 
Till  by  successless  sallies  wearied  quite, 
The  Memory  fails,  and  Fancy  takes  her  flight. 
The  wick  confin'd  within  its  socket  dies. 
Borne  down  and  smother'd  in  a  thousand  sighs. 


TO  A  COLD  BEAUTY, 

INSENSIBLE  OF  LOVE. 


Eliza,  farewel !  ah,  most  lovely  Eliza, 

So  much  as  thy  beauties  excel ; 
So  much  as  I  love  thee,  so  much  as  I  prize  thee, 

Unfeeling  Eliza,  farewel ! 
The  heart  without  feeling,  the  beauty's  but  small. 

Though  tempting  it  be  to  the  view ; 
The  warmth  of  a  soul  crowns  the  beauty  of  all, 

V^'^ithout  it  thou'rt  nothing — adieu ! 


TO  A  COLD  BEAUTY.  151 

Thou  Image  of  Beauty,  endeavour  is  vain 

To  vrarm  thee  to  life  and  to  love, 
Could  I  but  the  skill  of  the  artist  attain, 

And  steal  thee  a  soul  from  above ; 
Though  as  fair  as  the  statue  he  finish'd  art  thou, 

'Twere  folly  his  plan  to  pursue ; 
I  would  give  thee  feeling,  but  cannot  tell  how ; 

I  would  love  thee,  dear — but,  adieu ! 

To  all  that  life  sweetens  eternally  lost, 

Where  love  makes  a  heaven  below, 
Thy  bosom's  congealed  in  apathy's  frost. 

As  white  and  as  cold  as  the  snow : 
Since  no  spark  of  soul  its  dead  tenant  can  warm. 

Thou  Icicle  hung  on  Spring's  brow, 
I'll  turn  my  sighs  from  thee  to  mix  with  the  storm ; 

The  storm's  full  as  tender  as  thou. 


152  TO  A  COLD  BEAUTY. 

That  heart  where  no  feelings  or  raptures  can  dwell, 

Be  its  owner  in  person  most  fair, 
Were  beauty  a  bargain  to  buy  or  to  sell, 

I  never  would  purchase  it  there : 
So  cold  to  the  joys  that  in  sympathy  burn, 

Joys  none  but  true  love  ever  knew. 
How  lost  should  I  be  could  I  prove  no  return : 

I  wish  to  be  happy — adieu  ! 

PATTY. 


Ye  swampy  falls  of  pasture  ground. 

And  rushy  spreading  greens ; 
Ye  rising  swells  in  brambles  bound, 

And  freedom's  wilder'd  scenes ; 
I've  trod  ye  oft,  and  love  ye  dear, 

And  kind  was  fate  to  let  me ; 
On  you  I  found  my  all,  for  here 

Twas  first  my  Patty  met  me. 


PATTY.  153 


Flow  on,  thou  gently  plashing  stream, 

O'er  weed-beds  wild  and  rank  ; 
Delighted  I've  enjoy'd  my  dream 

Upon  thy  mossy  bank : 
Bemoistening  many  a  weedy  stem, 

I've  watch'd  thee  wind  so  clearly ; 
And  on  thy  bank  I  found  the  gem 

That  makes  me  love  thee  dearly. 

Thou  wilderness,  so  rudely  gay ; 

Oft  as  I  seek  thy  plain, 
Oft  as  I  wend  my  steps  away, 

And  meet  my  joys  again, 
And  brush  the  weaving  branches  by 

Of  briars  and  thorns  so  matty ; 
So  oft  reflection  warms  a  sigh, — 

Here  first  I  met  my  Patty. 


H  3 


154 


ON  YOUTH. 


Ah,  youth's  sweet  joys!  why  are  ye  gone  astray  ? 

Fain  would  I  follow  could  I  find  a  plan : 
To  my  great  loss  are  ye  exchang'd  away. 

For  that  sad  sorrow- ripening  name — a  man. 
Far  distant  joys  !  the  prospect  gives  me  pain  : 

Ah,  happiness !  and  hast  thou  no  return? 
No  kind  concern  to  call  thee  back  again. 

And  bid  this  aching  bosom  cease  to  mourn  ? 
The  daisies'  hopes  have  met  another  Spring, 

Poor  standard  tenants  on  a  stormy  plain  ; 
The  lark  confirms  it  on  his  russet  wing ; 

And  why  alone  am  I  denied  ?  in  vain  : 
Ah,  youth  is  fled ! 

A  second  blossom  I  but  vainly  crave  : 
The  flower,  that  opes  with  peace  to  come. 

Is  budding  in  the  grave. 


155 


THE  ADIEU. 


Lone  Lodge  in  the  bend  of  the  valley,  farewel! 

Thou  spot,  ever  dear  to  my  view ; 
My  anguish  my  bosom's  forbidden  to  tell. 

While  wandering  I  bid  thee  adieu. 
Stain'd  Rose-bud !  thou  once  of  my  ballad  the  pride, 

Till  proof  brought  thy  canker  to  view ; 
Though  heedlessly  now  thou  hast  roam'd  from  thy 
guide, 

I  still  wish  thy  foes  may  be  few. 

My  love  thou  hast  never  yet  known  to  deceive, 

I  vow'd  ever  constant  to  be ; 
And  thy  faithful  returns  did  as  firmly  believe, 

Till  proof  found  a  failing  in  thee. 


156  THE  ADIEU. 

Thou'rt  lovely,  I  own  it  in  many  a  sigh, 

But  what  has  such  beauty  to  win? 
The  night-shade,  it  blossoms  as  fair  to  the  eye, 

That  harbours  dead  poison  within. 

0  Rosebud !  thou  subject  of  many  a  song, 
Thy  defilement's  too  plain  to  my  view ; 

1  love  thee,  but  cannot  forgive  thee  the  wrong ; 
I  hope,  but  it's  vainly ; — adieu ! 

Resolv'd  never  more  to  behold  you  again, 
Or  to  visit  the  spot  where  you  dwell, 

My  last  look  I'm  leaving  on  Walkherd's  lov'd  plain, 
My  last  vow  I'm  breathing — farewel ! 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 


I 


► 


UPON  THE  PLAIN. 


A  BAIXAD. 


Upon  the  plain  there  hv'd  a  swain, 

A  flock  his  whole  employ ; 
Unknown  love's  cares,  and  all  its  snares, 

To  damp  his  humble  joy. 

Industry  toils,  while  Fortune  smiles. 

To  bless  him  with  increase ; 
Contentment  made  his  humble  trade 

A  scene  of  health  and  peace. 


160  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

But  Cupid  sly,  whose  jealous  eye 

Envied  his  happiness, 
With  pointed  darts  and  subtle  arts 

Resolv'd  on  his  distress. 

Though  first  in  vain  he  work'd  his  brain, 

Yet,  practis'd  in  deceit, 
Fresh  schemes  and  plans  were  nigh  his  hands ; 

And  some  were  sure  to  hit. 

In  fatal  hour  he  prov'd  his  power  ; 

A  shepherd's  form  he's  ta'en, 
With  crook  and  song  he  hums  along, 

And  thus  accosts  the  swain : 

"  Go,  friend,"  he  cried,  "  to  yonder  side 
The  h«dge  that  bounds  the  plain, 

For  there  a  lamb  has  lost  its  dam, 
And  bleats  for  help  in  vain." 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  161 

Intent  to  start,  his  tender  heart 

O'erlooks  the  subtle  snare, 
The  swain's  beguil'd,  pleas'd  Cupid  smil'd, 

Fair  Florimel  was  there. 

The  roses  red  her  cheeks  bespread. 

Her  bosom's  lily  white; 
To  view  her  charms  each  bosom  warms, 

JEnraptur'd  at  the  sight. 

Her  heaving  breast,  her  slender  waist. 

Her  shape  genteel  and  tall. 
Her  charms  divine  unrivall'd  shine, 

Alike  confess'd  by  all. 

Beneath  the  shade,  the  lovely  maid 

Lay  shelter'd  from  the  sun. 
O  luckless  swain  !  go,  fly  the  plain, 

Or  stay  and  be  undone. 


162  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

For,  ah !  'twas  prov'd,  by  them  that  lov'd, 

She  own'd  a  scornful  eye ; 
Her  pride  was  vain,  the  way  to  gain 

Her  pity,  was  to  die. 

Stretch'd  on  the  green,  her  beauty's  seen 

To  all  advantage  there ; 
To  meet  the  breeze  that  fann'd  the  trees, 

Her  snowy  neck  was  bare. 

She  meets  his  view ;  sweet  Peace,  adieu ! 

And  pleasures  known  before : 
He  sighs,  approves,  admires,  and  loves ; 

His  heart's  his  own  no  more. 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  163 


THE  COUNTRY  GIRL. 


Oh,  dear !  what  fine  thinkings  beset  me, 
Since  the  young  farmer  yesterday  met  me, 
To  tell  me  for  truth  he  would  get  me 

Some  service  more  fitting  in  town : 
For  he  said  'twas  a  shame,  and  he  swore  too, 
That  I  should  be  serv'd  so,  and  more  too, 
And  that  he  was  vex'd  o'er  and  o'er  too, 

To  see  me  so  sadly  run  down. 

When  to  thank  him,  for  curtsey'ng  I  dropp'd  me, 
He  said  'twas  all  foolish,  and  stopp'd  me ; 
And  into  his  arms,  oh !  he  popp'd  me, 
And  crumpled  my  bonnet  awry : 


164  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

The  tray  sav'd  the  fall,  till  he  mov'd  it, 
And  this  way  and  that  way  he  shov'd  it ; 
Good  behaviour,  he  said,  how  he  lov'd  it. 
When  maids  were  not  foolish  and  shy. 

Oh,  dear !  what  fine  thinkings  beset  me, 
Since  the  young  farmer  promis'd,  and  met  me. 
Of  what  he  would  do  and  would  get  me, 

How  my  heart  pittipatters  about : 
Though  fear — none  but  fools  make  a  trade  on- 
He  swore  when  he  saw  what  I  play'd  on, 
"  My  word  is  my  bond,  pretty  maiden  ! " 

Then  why  need  I  harbour  a  doubt  ? 

Though  the  tale-clacking  grass's  foul  stainmg 
In  my  holiday  clothes  is  remaining, 
I  ne'er  shall  go  make  a  complaining, 
IVe  promise  of  better  in  town : 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

So  Chub  needn't  come  again  croaking. 
To  maul  one  about,  so  provoking, 
I  know  what  is  what,  without  joking, 
There's  nought  got  by  pleasing  a  clown. 


PATTY  OF  THE  VALE. 


Where  lonesome  woodlands  close  surrounding 

Mark  the  spot  a  solitude, 
And  nature's  uncheck'd  scenes  abounding 

Form  a  prospect  wild  and  rude, 
A  cottage  cheers  the  spot  so  glooming, 

Hid  in  the  hollow  of  the  dale, 
Where,  in  youth  and  beauty  blooming. 

Lives  sweet  Patty  of  the  Vale. 


166  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

Gay  as  the  Iambs  her  cot  surrounding, 

Sporting  wild  the  shades  among, 
O'er  the  hills  and  bushes  bounding, 

Artless,  innocent,  and  young, 
Fresh,  as  blush  of  morning  roses, 

Ere  the  mid-day  suns  prevail, 
Fair,  as  lily-bud  uncloses, 

Blooms  sweet  Patty  of  the  Vale. 

Low  and  humble  though  her  station, 

Dress  though  mean  she's  doom'd  to  wear. 
Few  superiors  in  the  nation 

With  her  beauty  can  compare. 
What  are  riches  ? — not  worth  naming. 

Though  with  some  they  may  prevail ; 
Their's  be  choice  of  wealth  proclaiming. 

Mine  is  Patty  of  the  Vale. 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  167 

Fools  may  fancy  wealth  and  fortune 

Join  to  make  a  happy  pair, 
And  for  such  the  god  importune, 

With  full  many  a  fruitless  prayer : 
I,  their  pride  and  wealth  disdaining 

Should  my  humble  hopes  prevail, 
Happy  then,  would  cease  complaining, 

Blest  with  Patty  of  the  Vale. 


SAD  WAS  THE  DAY. 


Sad  was  the  day  when  my  Willy  did  leave  me. 
Sad  were  the  moments  that  wing'd  him  away ; 

And  oh,  most  distressing,  and  most  it  did  grieve  me, 
To  witness  his  looks  while  I  begg'd  him  to  stay. 


16S  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

It  hurt  him  to  think  that  in  vain  was  I  crying, 
Which  I  couldn't  help,  though  I  knew  it  so  too ; 

The  trumpets  all  sounding,  the  colours  all  flying, 
A  soldier  my  Willy — my  Willy  must  go. 

The  youths,  never  heeding  to-morrow  and  danger, 
Kept  laughing  and  toasting  their  girls  o'er  their 
beer ; 
But  oh,  my  poor  Willy,  just  like  a  lost  stranger. 
Stood  speechless  among  them,  half  dead  as  it 
were. 
He  kiss'd  me — 'twas  all — not  a  word  when  he 
started. 
And  oh,  in  his  silence  too  much  I  could  see, 
He  knew  for  a  truth,  and  he  knew,  broken  hearted, 
That  kiss  was  the  last  he  should  ever  give  me. 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  169 


FRIEND  LUBIN. 


Friend  Lubin  loves  his  Saturdays, 

That  bring  him  rest  on  Sundays ; 
But  fVhittler  loves  contrary  ways, 

And  wishes  all  were  Mondays. 
The  Labourer  doats  on  welcome  night 

To  rest  his  weary  limbs ; 
And  Misses  in  the  day  delight. 

To  shew  their  dressy  whims. 

But  oh,  the  day  and  night  to  me, 

The  Saturday  or  Monday, 
I  care  not  which- a- way  they  be, 

Or  working  day  or  Sunday : 

I 


170  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

Oh  no,  I  care  not  what  they  be, 
Though  night  I  most  approve  ; 

But  oh,  the  day  is  dear  to  me, 
That  brings  me  to  my  love. 


TO-DAY  THE  FOX  MUST  DIE. 

A  HUNTING  SONG. 


The  cock  awakes  the  rosy  dawn, 

And  tells  approaching  day, 
While  Reynard  sneaks  along  the  lawn 

Belated  with  his  prey : 
Oh  never  think  to  find  thy  home. 

But  for  thy  safety  fly ; 
The  sportsman's  long  proclaim'd  thy  doom, 

"  To-day  a  Fox  shall  die." 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  171 

The  bugle  blows,  the  sporting  train 

Swift  mount  the  snorting  steed, 
Each  fence  defiance  bids  in  vain 

Their  progress  to  impede; 
The  cover  broke,  they  drive  along, 

And  raise  a  jovial  cry; 
Each  dog  barks  chorus  to  my  song, 

"  To-day  a  Fox  shall  die." 

Like  lightning  o'er  the  hills  they  sweep, 

The  readiest  roads  they  go ; 
The  five-barr'd  gate  with  ease  they  leap : 

Hark  forward,  tally  ho ! 
The  mist  hangs  on,  and  scents  him  strong, 

The  moisture  makes  it  lie ; 
The  woods  re-echo  to  my  song, 

"  This  day  the  Fox  must  die." 


172  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

Old  Reynard  finding  shifts  in  vain, 

While  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Now  leaves  the  woods  to  try  the  plain. 

The  bugle  sounds  a  view  : 
Old  Threadbrake  gaily  leads  the  throng ; 

His  bold  unerring  cry 
Confirms  the  burthen  of  my  song, 

"  This  day  a  Fox  shall  die." 

His  funeral  knell  the  bugle  blows, 

His  end  approaches  near, 
He  reels  and  staggers  as  he  goes. 

And  drops  his  brush  with  fear ; 
More  eager  now  they  press  along, 

And  louder  still  the  cry. 
All  join  in  chorus  to  my  song, 

"  To-day  the  Fox  must  die." 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 


173 


MY  LAST  SHILLING. 


O  DISMAL  disaster!  O  troublesome  lot! 
What  a  heart-rending  theme  for  my  musing  I've  got : 
Then  pray  what's  the  matter  ? — O  friend,  I'm  not 
willing, 

The  thought  grieves  me  sore, 

Now  I'm  driven  to  shore — 
And  must  I  then  spend  my  last  shilling,  last  shilling? 
And  must  I  then  spend  my  last  shilling? 


O  painful  reflection !  thou  whole  of  my  store, 
That  for  these  three  months  in  my  breeches  I  wore ; 
To  spend  thee,  to  spend  thee,  the  thought  turns  me 
chiUing : 


174  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

Oh,  must  I  in  spite 

Of  all  reason,  this  ni^t, 
A  farewel  bid  to  my  last  shilling,  last  shilling, 
A  farewel  bid  to  my  last  shilling  ? 

How  oft  in  my  corner  I've  bother'd  my  pate, 
First  mourn'd  at  my  shilling,  and  then  at  my  fate, 
To  think  the  world's  riches — though  painful  and 
killing, 
While  I  here  endure 
The  sad  pain  past  a  cure. 
Of  being  drain'd  to  my  very  last  shilling,  last 

shilling, 
Of  being  drain'd  to  my  veiy  last  shilling. 

O  couldst  thou  but  answer,  dear  whole  of  my  store, 
I'd  ask  thee  a  question :  Thus  friendless  and  poor, 
Tis  whether  thou  wouldst  to  forsake  me  be  willing? 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  175 

Or  whether  it  still 

Would  be  more  to  thy  will 
To  stay,  and  be  call'd  my  last  shilling,  last  shilling  ? 
To  stay,  and  be  call'd  my  last  shilling? 

Thou  source  of  reflection,  my  friend,  and  my  all ! 
For  tho'  I'm  left  friendless  thou  stick'st  to  thy  stall ; 
And  through  each  vexing  trouble  seem'st  cheery  and 
willing : 

Thee  to  keep  I'll  contrive, 

For  I'm  sure  I  shan't  thrive 
If  ever  I  spend  such  a  shilling,  a  shilling, 
If  ever  I  spend  such  a  shilling. 

So  still,  old  companion,  stick  true  to  the  breeches, 
And   wear   this   old   pocket   thread-bare   to  its 

stitches ; 
For  ever  to  keep  thee  I  really  am  willing : 


176  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

And  who  knows,  but  what  thou 
(Though  I'm  hard  ashore  now) 

May  turn  out  a  lucky  last  shilling,  last  shilling. 

May  turn  out  a  lucky  last  shilling  ? 


HER  I  LOVE. 


Rose,  in  full  blown  blushes  dyed, 

Pink,  maturely  spread. 
Carnations,  boasting  all  their  pride 

Of  melting  white  and  red. 
Are  charms  confess'd  by  every  eye ; 

But,  ah !  how  faint  they  prove 
To  paint  superior  charms,  when  nigh 

The  cheek  of  her  I  love. 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  177 

Ripe  cherry  on  its  parent  tree, 

With  full  perfection  grac'd, 
Red  coral  in  its  native  sea, 

To  all  advantage  plac'd ; 
What  charms  they  boast  the  eye  to  please, 

And  beauty  to  improve : 
But,  ah !  all's  lost,  when  match'd  with  these 

The  lips  of  her  I  love. 

The  pulpy  plum,  when  ripeness  swells 

Its  down-surrounding  blue — 
The  dews  besprent  on  heather  bells, 

Reflecting  brighter  hue — 
The  azure  sky,  when  stars  appear 

Its  blueness  to  improve, 
Fade  into  dullest  shades,  when  near 

The  eyes  of  her  I  love. 


I  3 


178  SONGS  AND  BALLADS, 

Sweet  is  the  blossom'd  bean's  perfume, 

By  morning  breezes  shed ; 
And  sweeter  still  the  jonquil's  bloom, 

When  eve  bedews  its  head ; 
The  perfume  sweet  of  pink  and  rose, 

And  violet  of  the  grove : 
But  ah !  how  sweeter  far  than  those, 

The  kiss  of  her  I  love. 


MY  LOVE,  THOU  ART  A  NOSEGAY 
SWEET. 


My  love,  thou  art  a  nosegay  sweet, 
My  sweetest  flower  I  prove  thee ; 

And  pleas'd  I  pin  thee  to  my  breast. 
And  dearly  do  I  love  thee. 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  17^ 

And  when,  my  nosegay,  thou  shalt  fade. 
As  sweet  a  flower  thou'lt  prove  thee ; 

And  as  thou  witherest  on  my  breast, 
For  beauty  past  I'll  love  thee. 

And  when,  my  nosegay,  thou  shalt  die. 
And  heaven's  flower  shalt  prove  thee ; 

My  hopes  shall  follow  to  the  sky, 
And  everlasting  love  thee. 


MY  LOVE'S  LIKE  A  LILY. 


My  love's  like  a  lily,  my  love's  like  a  rose. 
My  love's  like  a  smile  the  spring  mornings  disclose ; 
And  sweet  as  the  rose,  on  her  cheek  her  love  glows, 
WTien  sweetly  she  smileth  on  me  : 


180  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

But  as  cold  as  the  snow  of  the  lily,  my  rose 
Behaves  to  pretenders,  whoever  they  be ; 

In  vain  higher  stations  their  passions  disclose, 
To  win  her  affections  from  me. 

My  love's  hke  a  lily,  my  love's  like  a  rose, 
My  love's  like  the  smile  the  spring  mornings  dis- 
close; 
And  fair  as  the  lily,  and  sweet  as  the  rose, 

My  love's  beauty  bloometh  to  me  : 
And  smiles  of  more  pleasure  my  heart  only  knows, 

To  think  that  pretenders,  whoever  they  be, 
But  vainly  their  love  and  their  passions  disclose; 

My  love  remains  constant  to  me. 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  ISl 


TRUE  LOVE. 


True  love,  the  virgin's  first  fond  passion, 
How  blest  the  swain  to  prove  it ! 

Should  Hymen  snatch  the  lucky  hour, 
No  power  on  earth  can  move  it. 

When  death  such  loving  hearts  divides. 
And  love  on  earth  is  blasting  ; 

Firm  fix'd  the  hope  in  heaven  remains. 
Where  love  is  everlasting. 


182  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 


THE  FIRST  OF  MAY. 

A  BALLAD. 


Fair  blooms  the  rose  upon  the  green, 

Pretending  to  excel ; 
But  who  another  rose  has  seen, 

A  different  tale  can  tell. 
The  morning  smiles,  the  lark's  begun 

To  welcome  in  the  May : 
Be  cloudless,  skies !  look  out,  bright  sun ! 

And  haste  my  love  away. 

Though  graceful  round  the  maidens  move. 

That  join  the  rural  ball. 
Soon  shall  they  own  my  absent  love 

The  rival  of  them  all. 


► 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS.  183 

Go,  wake  your  shepherdess,  ye  lambs ! 

And  murmur  her  delay : 
Chide  her  neglect,  ye  hoarser  dams ! 

And  call  my  love  away. 

Ye  happy  swains,  with  each  a  bride. 

Were  but  the  angel  there, 
While  slighted  maids  despair'd  and  sigh'd, 

You'd  court  th'  unequall'd  fair. 
Dry  up,  ye  dews  !  nor  threat'ning  hing, 

To  soil  her  best  array  : 
Ye  birds !  with  double  vigour  sing, 

And  urge  my  love  away. 

Welcome,  sun !  the  dews  are  fled. 

The  lark  has  rais'd  his  song ; 
The  daisy  nauntles  up  its  head, — 

Why  waits  my  love  so  long  ? 


184  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

As  flowrets  fade,  the  pleasures  bloom. 

All  hastening  to  decay : 
The  day  steals  on,  and  showers  may  come ; 

This  instant  haste  away. 

What  now,  ye  fearful  cringing  sheep ! 

Who  meets  your  wondering  eyes  ? 
What  makes  you  'neath  the  maples  creep, 

In  homaging  surprise  ? 
No  ladies  tread  our  humble  green : 

Ah !  welcome  wonders,  hail ! 
I  witness  your  mistaken  queen 

Is  Patty  of  the  Vale. 


SONNETS. 


IHE  SETTING  SUN. 


This  scene,  how  beauteous  to  a  musing  mind. 

That  now  swift  slides  from  my  enchanting  view ; 
The  Sun  sweet  setting  yon  far  hills  behind, 

In  other  worlds  his  visits  to  renew : 
What  spangled  glories  all  around  him  shine  ; 

What  nameless  colours,  cloudless  and  serene, 
(A  heav'nly  prospect,  brightest  in  decline,) 

Attend  his  exit  from  this  lovely  scene. 
So  sets  the  Christian's  sun,  in  glories  clear ; 
So  shines  his  soul  at  his  departure  here : 

No  clouding  doubts,  nor  misty  fears  arise, 
To  dim  Hope's  golden  rays  of  being  forgiven ; 

His  Sun,  sweet  setting  in  the  clearest  skies. 
In  safe  assurance  wings  the  soul  to  heaven. 


188  SONNETS. 


THE  PRIMROSE. 


Welcome,  pale  Primrose !  starting  up  between 
Dead  matted  leaves  of  ash  and  oak,  that  strew 
The  every  lawn,  the  wood,  and  spinney  through, 

Mid  creeping  moss  and  ivy's  darker  green ; 
How  much  thy  presence  beautifies  the  ground : 

How  sweet  thy  modest,  unaffected  pride 

Glows  on  the  sunny  bank,  and  wood's  warm  side. 
And  where  thy  fairy  flowers  in  groups  are  found, 

The  school-boy  roams  enchantedly  along. 
Plucking  the  fairest  with  a  rude  delight : 

While  the  meek  shepherd  stops  his  simple  song, 
To  gaze  a  moment  on  the  pleasing  sight; 

O'eijoyd  to  see  the  flowers  that  truly  bring 

The  welcome  news  of  sweet  returning  Spring. 


SONNETS.  189 


CHRISTIAN  FAITH. 


What  antidote  or  charm  on  earth  is  found. 

To  alleviate  or  soften  fate's  decree  ? 
To  fearless  enter  on  that  dark  profound, 

Where  life  emerges  in  eternity? 

Wisdom,  a  rushlight  vainly  boasting  power 
To  cheer  the  terrors  sin's  first  visit  gave, 

Denies  existence  at  that  dreadful  hour, 

And  shrinks  in  horror  from  a  gaping  grave. 

O  Christianity,  thou  charm  divine ! 

That  firmness,  faith,  and  last  resource  is  thine : 

With  thee  the  Christian  joys  to  lose  his  breath. 
Nor  dreads  to  find  his  mortal  strength  decay; 

But,  dear  in  friendship,  shakes  the  hand  of  Death, 
And  hugs  the  pain  that  gnaws  his  life  away. 


190 


50X3rETS. 


THE  MOOy 


SDNNSTT*.  191 


THE  GIPSY'S  ETEXLS'G  BLAZE. 


To  me  bov  wSdlr  pkaemm  is  ikat 


A  grovp  ofGipmcj,  eeaired  cm  the 

In  some  ww  Book  witere  Boceas  kas  m>  pow  t  ; 

^Vhere  suddcB  starts  the  ndiii  imj.  blftse  bdiBd 
Shoit,  shrubby  bashes,  nibbled  by  the  sheep. 
Tint  Bosdy  OB  these  short  swmrd  p&stares  keep; 

Now  lo^  BOW  sees,  bow  beaditi^  with  the  wad : 

And  now  the  swarthy  sybd  kseds  redia'd; 
With  prosgling  stick  ^«  stfll  reaews  dte  hhwi. 
Forcing  brisht  sparks  to  twinkle  trooi  ^  ftue. 

^lien  this  I  view,  the  aU-attentire  MBd 

Will  oft  exclaim  ^so  sironi  the  sceae  perrades), 
"  Gnuit  me  this  lite,  thou  spirit  ot'  the  shades !  ~ 


192  SONNETS. 


A  SCENE. 


The  Landscape's  stretching  view,  that  opens  wide, 
With  dribbUng  brooks,  and  river's  wider  floods, 
And  hills,  and  vales,  and   darksome  lowering 
woods. 

With  green  of  varied  hues,  and  grasses  pied ; 
The  low  brown  cottage  in  the  shelter'd  nook  ; 

The  steeple,  peeping  just  above  the  trees 

Whose  dangling  leaves  keep  rustling  in  the  breeze ; 
And  thoughtful  shepherd  bending  o'er  his  hook  ; 

And  maidens  stripp'd,  haymaking  too,  appear ; 
And  Hodge  a  whistling  at  his  fallow  plough ; 
And  herdsman  hallooing  to  intruding  cow : 

All  these,  with  hundreds  more,  far  off  and  near. 
Approach  my  sight ;  and  please  to  such  excess, 
That  language  fails  the  pleasure  to  express. 


SONNETS.  193 


TO  THE  GLOW-WORM. 


Tasteful  Illumination  of  the  night, 

Bright  scatter'd,  twinkling  star  of  spangled  earth ! 
Hail  to  the  nameless  colour'd  dark-and-light, 

The  witching  nurse  of  thy  illumin'd  birth. 
In  thy  still  hour  how  dearly  I  delight 

To  rest  my  weary  bones,  from  labour  free; 
In  lone  spots,  out  of  hearing,  out  of  sight, 

To  sigh  day's  smother'd  pains ;  and  pause  on  thee. 

Bedecking  dangling  brier  and  ivied  tree, 
Or  diamonds  tipping  on  the  grassy  spear ; 

Thy  pale-fac'd  glimmering  light  I  love  to  see. 
Gilding  and  glistering  in  the  dew-drop  near  : 

O  still-hour's  mate !  my  easing  heart  sobs  free, 
While  tiny  bents  low  bend  with  many  an  added  tear. 

K 


lc»4  SONNETS. 


THE  ANT. 


Thou  little  Insect,  infinitely  small, 

What  curious  texture  marks  thy  minute  frame  ; 
How  seeming  large  thy  foresight,  and  withal, 

Thy  labouring  talents  not  unworthy  fame, 
To  raise  such  monstrous  hills  along  the  plain, 

Larger  than  moim tains,  when  compar'd  with  thee : 
To  drag  the  crumb  dropp'd  by  the  village  swain, 

Huge  size  to  thine,  is  strange,  indeed,  to  me. 
But  that  great  instinct  which  foretels  the  cold, 

And  bids  to  guard  'gainst  winter's  wasteful  power, 
Endues  this  mite  with  cheerfulness  to  hold 

Its  toiling  labours  through  the  sultry  hour : 
So  that  same  soothing  power,  in  misery, 
Cheers  the  poor  pilgrim  to  eternity. 


SONNETS.  11)5 


TO  HOPE. 


Ah,  smiling  cherub !  cheating  Hope,  adieu! 

No  more  I'll  listen  to  your  pleasing  themes ; 
No  moire  your  flattering  scenes  with  joy  renew, 

For  ah,  I've  found  them  all  delusive  dreams  : 
Yes,  mere  delusions  all ;  therefore,  adieu ! 

No  more  shall  you  this  aching  heart  beguile ; 
No  more  your  fleeting  joys  will  I  pursue, 

That  mock'd  my  sorrows  when  they  seem'd  to 
smile. 
And  flatter'd  tales  that  never  will  be  true : 

Tales,  only  told  to  aggravate  distress 
And  make  me  at  my  fate  the  more  repine, 

By  whispering  joys  I  never  can  possess. 
And  painting  scenes  that  never  can  be  mine. 


196  SONNETS. 


A  WINTER  SCENE. 


Hail,  Scenes  of  desolation  and  despair, 

Keen  Winter's  overbearing  sport  and  scorn ! 
Torn  by  his  rage,  in  ruins  as  you  are, 

To  me  more  pleasing  than  a  summer's  morn 
Your  shatter'd  state  appears ; — despoil'd  and  bare, 

Stripp'd  of  your  clothing,  naked  and  forlorn  : — 
Yes,  winter's  havock !  wretched  as  you  shine. 

Dismal  to  others  as  your  fate  may  seem, 
Your  fate  is  pleasing  to  this  heart  of  mine, 

Your  wildest  horrors  I  the  most  esteem  : 
The  ice-bound  floods  that  still  with  rigour  freeze, 

The  snow-cloth'd  valley,  and  the  naked  tree. 
These  sympathising  scenes  my  heart  can  please. 

Distress  is  their's— and  they  resemble  me. 


SONNETS.  197 


EVENING. 


Now  glaring  daylight's  usher'd  to  a  close ; 

And  nursing  Eve  her  soothing  care  renews, 
To  welcome  weary  labour  to  repose. 

And  cherish  nature  with  reviving:  dews. 
Hail,  cooling  sweets !  that  breathe  so  sweetly  here  ; 

Hail,  lovely  Eve !  whose  hours  so  lovely  prove ; 
Thy  silent  calm !  to  solitude  so  dear  ; 

And  oh,  this  darkness  !  dearer  still  to  love. 
Now  the  fond  lover  seeks  thy  silent  plains. 

And  with  his  charmer  in  fond  dalliance  strays, 
Vowing  his  love,  and  telling  jealous  pains 

Which  doubtful  fancies  in  their  absence  raise. 
Ah !  though  such  pleasures  centre  not  in  me, 
I  love  to  wander  and  converse  with  thee. 


1<)8  SONNETS. 


TO  THE  WINDS. 


Hail,  gentle  Winds !  I  love  your  murmuring  sound; 

The  willows  charm  me,  wavering  to  and  fro ; 
And  oft  I  stretch  me  on  the  daisied  ground, 

To  see  you  crimp  the  wrinkled  flood  below  : 
Delighted  more  as  brisker  gusts  succeed, 

And  give  the  landscape  round  a  sweeter  grace. 
Sweeping  in  shaded  waves  the  ripening  mead, 

Pufling  their  rifled  fragrance  in  my  face. 
Painters  of  Nature  !  ye  are  doubly  dear ; 

Her  children  dearly  love  your  whispering  charms  : 
Ah,  ye  have  murmur'd  sweet  to  many  an  ear 

That  now  lies  dormant  in  death's  icy  arms ; 
And  at  this  moment  many  a  weed  ye  wave. 
That  hides  the  bard  in  his  forgotten  grave. 


SONNETS.  199 


NATIVE  SCENES. 


O  NATIVE  Scenes,  for  eve-  ever  dear! 

So  blest,  so  happy  as  I  here  have  been. 

So  charm'd  with  nature  in  each  varied  scene, 
To  leave  you  all  is  cutting  and  severe. 

Ye  hawthorn    bushes    that  from  winds   would 
screen, 
Where  oft  I've  shelter'd  from  a  threaten'd  shower ; 
In  youth's  past  bliss,  in  childhood's  happy  hour, 

Ye  woods  I've  wandered,  seeking  out  the  nest; 
Ye  meadows  gay  that  rear'd  rae  many  a  flower, 

Where,  pulling  cowslips,  I've  been  doubly  blest. 
Humming  gay  fancies  as  I  pluck'd  the  prize : 

Oh,  fate  unkind!  beloved  scenes,  adieu! 
Your  vanish'd  pleasures  crowd  my  swimming  eyes, 

And  make  the  wounded  heart  to  bleed  anew. 


•200  SONNETS. 


TO  A  FAVOURITE  TREE. 


Old,  favourite  Tree !  art  thou  too  fled  the  scene? 

Could  not  thy  'dining  age  the  axe  delay, 
And  let  thee  stretch  thy  shadows  o'er  the  green, 

And  let  thee  die  in  picturesque  decay  ? 
What  hadst  thou  done  to  meet  a  tyrant's  frown  ? 

Small  value  was  the  ground  on  which  thou  stood ; 
But  gain's  rude  rage  it  was  that  cut  thee  down. 

And  dragg'd  thee  captive  from  thy  native  wood. 
So  gay  in  summer  as  thy  boughs  were  dress'd> 

So  soft,  so  cool,  as  then  thy  leaves  did  wave; 
I  knew  thee  then,  and  knowing  am  distress'd : 

And  like  as  Friendship  leaning  o'er  the  grave, 
Loving  ye  all,  ye  trees,  ye  bushes,  dear, 
I  wander  where  you  stood,  and  shed  my  bosom-tear. 


SONNETS.  201 


APPROACH  OF  SPRING. 


Sweet  are  the  omens  of  approaching  Spring, 

"WTien  gay  the  elder  sprouts  her  winged  leaves ; 
"WTien  tootling  robins  carol-welcomes  sing, 

And  sparrows  chelp  glad  tidings  from  the  eaves. 
What  lovely  prospects  wait  each  wakening  hour. 

When  each  new  day  some  novelty  displays ; 
How  sweet  the  sun-beam  melts  the  crocus  flower, 

Whose  borrow'd  pride  shines  dizen'd  in  his  rays : 
Sweet,  new-laid  hedges  flush  their  tender  greens ; 
Sweet  peep  the  arum-leaves  their  shelter  screens ; 

Ah !  sweet  are  all  which  I'm  denied  to  share : 
Want's  painful  hindrance  sticks  me  to  her  stall ; — 

But  still  Hope's  smiles  unpoint  the  thorns  of  Care, 
Since  Heaven's  eternal  Spring  is  free  for  all. 

k3 


20^2  SONNETS. 


SUMMER. 


The  oak's  slow-opening  leaf,  of  deepening  hue, 

Bespeaks  the  power  of  Summer  once  again ; 
While  many  a  flower  unfolds  its  charms  to  view, 

To  glad  the  entrance  of  his  sultry  reign. 
"Where  peep  the  gaping,  speckled  cuckoo-flowers, 

Sweet  is  each  rural  scene  she  brings  to  pass  ; 
Prizes  to  rambling  school-boys'  vacant  hours. 

Tracking  wild  searches  through  the  meadow  grass ; 
The  meadow-sweet  taunts  high  its  showy  wreath, 
And  sweet  the  quaking  grasses  hide  beneath. 

Ah,  'barr'd  from  all  that  sweetens  life  below, 
Another  Summer  still  my  eyes  can  see 

Freed  from  this  scorn  and  pilgrimage  of  woe, 
To  share  the  Seasons  of  Eternity. 


SONNETS.  203 


THE  RIVER  GWASH. 


Where  winding  Gwash  whirls  round  its  wildest 
scene, 

On  this  romantic  bend  I  sit  me  down ; 
On  that  side  view  the  meadow's  smoothing  green, 

Edg'd  with   the   peeping    hamlet's    checquering 
brown ; 

Here  the  steep  bank,  as  dropping  headlong  down ; 
While  glides  the  stream  a  silver  streak  between. 

As  glide  the  shaded  clouds  along  the  sky, 
Bright'ning  and  deep'ning,  losing  as  they're  seen. 
In  light  and  shade  :  to  where  old  willows  lean. 

Thus  their  broad  shadow  runs  the  river  by. 
With  tree  and  bush  replete,  a  wilder'd  scene. 

And  moss  and  ivy  speckling  on  my  eye. 
Oh,  thus  while  musing  wild,  I'm  doubly  blest. 
My  woes  unheeding,  and  my  heart  at  rest. 


204  SONNETS. 


TO  RELIGION. 


Thou  sacred  light,  that  right  from  wrong  discerns ; 

Thou  safeguard  of  the  soul,  thou  heaven  on  earth ; 
Thou  undervaluer  of  the  world's  concerns, 

Thou  disregarder  of  its  joys  and  mirth; 
Thou  only  home  the  houseless  wanderers  have ; 

Thou  prop  by  which  the  pilgrim's  woes  are  borne ; 
Thou  solace  of  the  lonely  hermit's  cave, 

That  beds  him  down  to  rest  on  fate's  sharp  thorn; 
Thou  only  hope  to  sorrow's  bosom  given ; 

Thou  voice  of  mercy  when  the  weary  call ; 
Thou  faith  extending  to  thy  home  in  heaven  ; 

Thou  peace,  thou  rest,  thou  comfort,  all  in  all : 
O  sovereign  good  !  on  thee  all  hopes  depend. 
Till  thy  grand  source  unfolds  its  realizing  end. 


SONNETS.  205 


ANXIETY. 


One,  o'er  heaths  wandering  in  a  pitch  dark  night, 

Making  to  sounds  that  hope  some  village  near ; 
Hermit,  retreating  to  a  chinky  light, 

Long  lost  in  winding  cavern  dark  and  drear ; 

A  slave,  long  banish'd  from  his  country  dear. 
By  freedom  left  to  seek  his  native  plains ; 

A  soldier,  absent  many  a  long,  long  year, 
In  sight  of  home  ere  he  that  comfort  gains ; 
A  thirsty  labouring  wight,  that  wistful  strains 

O'er  the  steep  hanging  bank  to  reach  the  stream ; 
A  hope,  delay  so  lingeringly  detains. 

We  still  on  point  of  its  disclosure  seem : 
These  pictures  weakly  'semble  to  the  eye 
A  faint  existence  of  Anxiety. 


'206  SONNETS. 


EXPECTATION. 


When  Expectation  in  the  bosom  heaves, 

What  longing,  anxious  views  disturb  the  mind ; 
What  fears,  what  hopes,  distrust  and  then  believe 

That  something  which  the  heart  expects  to  find : 
How  the  poor  prisoner,  ere  he's  doom'd  to  die, 

Within  his  gloomy  cell  of  dreary  woe, 
How  does  he  watch,  with  Expectation's  eye. 

The  lingering,  long  suspense  of  fate  to  know. 
Alas,  poor  soul !  though  different  bonds  confine ; 
The  walls  his  prison  is,  the  world  is  mine.: 

So  do  I  turn  my  weary  eyes  above. 
So  do  I  look  and  sigh  for  peace  to  come. 

So  do  I  long  the  grave's  dark  end  to  prove. 
And  anxious  wait  my  long,  long  journey  home. 


SONNETS.  207 


TO  MY  OATEN  REED. 


Thou  warble  wild,  of  rough,  rude  melody, 

How  oft  I've  woo'd  thee,  often  thrown  thee  by ; 

In  many  a  doubtful  rapture  touching  thee, 
Waking  thy  rural  notes  in  many  a  sigh  : 
Fearing  the  wise,  the  wealthy,  proud  and  high. 

Would  scorn  as  vain  thy  lowly  extasy ; 

Deeming  presumptuous  thy  uncultur'd  themes. 

Thus  vainly  courting  Taste's  unblemish'd  eye, 
To  list  a  simple  Labourer's  artless  dreams, 
Haply  I  wander  into  wide  extremes. 

But  O  thou  sweet,  wild-winding  rhapsody, 

Thou  jingling  charm  that  dost  my  heart  control ; 

I  take  thee  up  to  smother  many  a  sigh. 

And  lull  the  throbbings  of  a  woe-worn  soul. 


208 


CRAZY    XELL. 


A  TRUE  STORY, 


The  sun  lowly  sinking  behind  the  far  trees, 

And,  crossing  the  path,  humming  home  were  the 

bees ; 
And  darker  and  darker  it  grew  by  degrees. 

And  crows  they  flock'd  quawking  to  rest : 
When,  unknown  to  her  parents,  Nell  slove  on  her 

hat, 
And  o'er  the  fields  hurried— scarce  knew  she  for 

what; 
But  her  sweetheart,  in  taking  advantage  and  that, 
Had  kiss'd,  and  had  promis'd  the  best. 


CRAZY  NELL.  209 

Poor  maidens  !  of  husbands  so  much  they  conceit, 
The  daisy  scarce  touch'd  rose  unhurt  from  her  feet, 
So  eager  she  hasten'd  her  lover  to  meet, 

As  to  make  him  to  wait  was  unjust; 
On  the  wood,  dim  discover' d,  she  fixed  her  eyes — 
Such  a  queer  spot  to  meet  in — suspicions  might  rise ; 
But  the  fond  word  "  a  sweetheart"  such  goodness 
implies, 

Ah,  who  would  a  lover  distrust ! 

More  gloomy  and  darker — black  clouds  hung  the 

wind, 
Far  objects  diminish'd  before  and  behind. 
More  narrow  and  narrow  the  circle  declin'd, 

And  silence  reign'd  awfully  round. 
When  Nelly  within  the  wood-riding  sat  down ; 
She  listen'd,  and  lapp'd  up  her  arms  in  her  gown ; 
Far,  far  from  her  cottage,  and  far  from  the  town, 

And  her  sweetheart  not  yet  to  be  found. 


210  CRA2Y  NELL. 

The  miDutes  seem'd  hours — with   impatience  she 

heard 
The  flap  of  a  leaf,  and  the  twit  of  a  bird ; 
The  least  little  trifle  that  whisper 'd  or  stirr'd, 

Hope  pictur'd  her  lover  as  nigh  : 
When  wearied  with  sitting,  she  wander'd  about, 
And  open'd  the  wood-gate,  and  gave  a  look  out ; 
And  fain  would  have  halloo'd,  but  Fear  had  a  doubt 

That  thieves  might  be  lurking  hard  by. 

Far  clocks  count  eleven—"  He  won't  be  long  now/' 
Her  anxious  hopes  whisper'd— hoarse  wav'd  the 

wood  bough ; 
— "  He  heeds  not  my  fears,  or  he's  false  to  his  vow !" 

Poor  Nelly  sat  doubtful,  and  sigh'd : 
The  man  who  had  promis'd  her  husband  to  be. 
And  to  wed  on  the  morrow— her  friends  all  could  see 
That  a  good-for-nought  sort  of  a  fellow  was  he. 

And  they  hop'd  nothing  worse  might  betide. 


CRAZY  NELL.  211 

At  length,  as  in  fear,  slowly  tapp'd  the  wood-gate : 
'Twas  Ben  ! — she  complain'd  so  long  painful  to  wait. 
Deep  design  hung  his  looks,  he  but  mumbled  "  Tis 
late," 

And  pass'd  her,  and  bid  her  come  on. 
The  mind  plainly  pictures  that  night-hour  of  dread. 
In  the  midst  of  a  wood !  where  the  trees  over  head 
The  darkness  increased — a  dungeon  they  spread. 

And  the  clock  at  the  moment  toU'd  one ! 

Nell  fain  would  have  forc'd,  as  she  foUow'd,  some 

chat; 
And  trifled,  on  purpose,  with  this  thing  and  that ; 
And  complain'd  of  the  dew-dropping  spoiling  her 
hat; 

But  nothing  Ben's  silence  would  break. 
Extensive  the  forest,  the  roads  to  and  fro. 
And  this  way  and  that  way,  above  and  below. 
As  crossing  the  ridings,  as  winding  they  go  — 

"  Ah !  what  road  or  way  can  he  seek  ? " 


212  CRAZY  NELL. 

Her  eye,  ever  watchful,  now  caught  an  alarm; 
Lights  gleam,  and  tools  tinkle,  as  if  nigh  a  farm : 
"  O  don't  walk  so  fast,  Ben— I'm  fearful  of  harm !" 

She  said,  and  shrugg'd  closer  behind. 
"  That  light's  from  my  house !"  'twas  the  first  word 

she  caught 
From  his  lips,  since  he  through  the  dark  wood  had 

her  brought. 
A  house  in  a  wood !  Oh,  good  God !  what  a  thought ; 

What  sensations  then  rush'd  on  her  mind ! 

The  things,  which  her  friends  and  her  neighbours  had 

said, 
Afresh  at  that  moment  all  jump'd  in  her  head; 
And  mistrust,  for  the  first  time,  now  fiU'd  her  with 
dread : 

And  as  she  approach'd,  she  could  see 
How  better,  for  her,  their  advice  to  have  ta'en ; 
And  she  wish'd  to  herself  then  she  had— but  in  vain : 
— A  heap  of  fresh  mould,  and  a  spade,  she  saw  plain, 

And  a  lantern  tied  up  to  a  tree. 


CRAZY  NELL.  213 

**  Here  they  come !  "  a  voice  whispers ; — "  Haste ! 

put  out  the  light." 
"  No :  dig  the  grave  deeper !" — "  Very  dark  is  the 

night." 
Slow  mutterings  mingled. — Oh,  dismal  the  sight ! 

—The  fate  of  poor  Nelly  was  plain. 
Fear  chill'd  through  her  heart — but  Hope  whisper'd 

her — Fly  ! 
Chance  seiz'd  on  the  moment,  a  wind-gust  blew  high. 
She  slipt  in  the  thicket— he  turn'd  not  his  eye, 
And  the  grave-diggers  waited  in  vain. 

At  that  fearful  moment,  so  dreadfully  dark, 
How  welcome  the  song  of  the  shepherd,  or  lark; 
How  cheery  to  hearken,  and  hear  the  dog  bark, 

As  through  the  dark  wood  she  fled  fast : 
But,  horror  of  horrors,  all  nature  was  hush ! 
Not  a  sound  was  there  heard — save  a  blackbird,  or 

thrush, 
That,  started  from  sleep,  flusker'd  out  of  the  bush. 

Which  her  brushing  clothes  shook  as  they  past. 


214  CRAZY  NEJLL. 

Fear  now  truly  pictur'd :  she  ne'er  turn'd  her  head 
Either  this  way  or  that  way — straight  forward  she 

fled; 
And  Fancy,  still  hearing  the  horrors  with  dread, 

On  faster  and  fearfuUer  stole. 
The  matted  leaves  rustle— the  boughs  swiftly  part, 
Her  hands  and  her  face  with  the  brambles   did 

smart ; 
But,  oh  !  the  worst  anguish  was  felt  at  her  heart, — 

Ben's  unkindness  struck  death  to  her  soul. 

Now  glimmering  lighter  the  forest  appears, 

And  Hope,  the  sweet  comforter,  soften'd  her  fears ; 

Light  and  liberty,  darkness  !  thy  horror  endears ; 

Great  bliss  did  the  omen  impart : 
The  forest,  its  end,  and  its  terrors  gone  by. 
She  breath'd  the  free  air,  and  she  saw  the  blue  sky ; 
Her  own  fields  she  knew — to  her  home  did  she 

fly, 

And  great  was  the  joy  of  her  heart. 


CRAZY  NELL.  215 

Oh,  prospect  endearing !  the  village  to  view, 

The  mora  sweet  appearing, — and  gay  the  cock  crew. 

When,  mangled  by  brambles  and  dabbled  in  dew. 

She  gave  a  loud  rap  at  the  door : 
The  parents  in  raptures  wept  over  their  child ; 
She  mutter'd  her  terrors — her  eyes  rolled  wild — 
"  They  dig  the  grave  deeper ! — Your  Nelly's  be- 
guil'd!" 

She  said,  and  she  siled  on  the  floor. 

Poor  Nell  soon  recover'd ;  but,  ah  !  to  her  cost, 
Her  sense  and  her  reason  for  ever  were  lost : 
And  scorch'd  by  the  summer,  and  chill'd  by  the  frost, 

A  maniac,  restless  and  wild. 
Now  crazy  Nell  rambles ;  and  still  she  will  weep, 
And,  fearless,  at  night  into  hovels  will  creep. — 
Fond  parents  !  alas,  their  afliiction  is  deep, 

And  vainly  they  comfort  their  child. 


GLOSSARY. 


GLOSSARY. 


Bangs,  v.n,  moves  with  violence. 

Battled,  part,  bespattered  with  mud. 

Battered,  v,  n.  fought  his  way. 

Beetling,  part,  striking  with  a  heavy  woodan  mallet,  called  a  beetle. 

See  Folds. 
Bevering,  adj.  drinking,  (from  Bevere,  Ital.  to  drink;   whence 

Beverage,  and  the  Beaver  of  a  helmet.) 
Bird-boy,  sub.  a  boy  who  frightens  birds  from  the  corn. 
Booing  and  mooing,  part,  expressing  the  noise  of  cattle  when  they 

bellow. 
Bum,  i;.  n.  to  rush  with  a  murmuring  sound.  (Diet.  Boom.) 
Chaps,  sub.  young  fellows. 

Chelp,  V,  a.  to  chirp,  or  make  a  chattering  noise  like  a  bird. 
Clammed,  part,  exhausted  for  want  of  food. 
'Clining,  for  declining. 
Conceit,  v.  n.  to  think  extravagantly. 
Crampt,  adj.  limited,  confined. 
Crumbles,  sub.  crumbs. 

Crumping,  adj.  crushing,  witii  a  low,  abrupt  noise. 
Culling,  part,  for  culled,  chosen. 
Curabergrounds,  sub.  a  name  for  useless  trees.     "  Cut  it  down, 

why  cumbereth  it  the  ground." 


220  GLOSSARY. 

Dinged  on  the  nose, — taunted,  reproved. 

Dinner-tin,  a  tin  vessel  containing  his  dinner. 

Dithering,  part,  shaking  with  cold. — (Ash's  Diet.  Didder.) 

Drowking,  part,  drooping,  faint  with  drouth. 

Eggs  on,  V.  n.  urges  forward. 

'Fex,  a  petty  oath. 

Flaze,  sub,  a  smoky  flame,— by  contraction  probably  of  Jiash  and 
haze. 

J  lops,  V.  a.  outspreads,  as  it  were  broad  wings. 

Fluskered,  v.  n.  flew  with  sudden  and  disordered  motion. 

Folds,  sub.  inclosures  made  with  hurdles,  wherein  slieep  are  pen- 
ned at  night. 

Gad,  sub.  the  gad-fly. 

Gie,  for  give. 

'Gin,  for  begin. 

Glowered,  v.  n.  stared.  (So  Burns.) 

Goss,  sub.  gorse,  furze. 

King,  V.  a.  to  hang.  (So  Chaucer.) 

Hob,  sub.  the  ledge  or  shelf  of  a  fire-grate. 

Kercliup, — the  noise  of  partridges  calling  to  each  other. 

'Lotted,  for  allotted. 

Lump  away,  v,  n  to  beat  with  a  heavy  sound. 

Lunge,  V.  n.  to  lurch,  to  hide,  to  skulk. 

Matey,  sub.  for  mate. 

Matty,  matted, — twisted,  interwoven. 

JNIauls,  V.  a.  rudely  pushes. 

'Minds,  for  reminds. 

Mounting, port,  equipping. 

Mulls,  sub.  the  name  by  which  milk-maids  call  their  cows. 

Mun,  V  n.  must. 

Nappy,  sub.  ale. 


GLOSSARY.  ^^1 

Nauntles,  v.  n.  meekly  elevates. 

'Neath,  for  beneath. 

'Nighted,  for  benighted. 

Palms,  sub.  tlie  English  palm,  or  sallow. 

Pinks,  V.  a.  imbues  with  a  piuk  colour. 

Pint,  I),  a  to  drink  a  pint  of  ale. 

'Plaining,  for  complaining. 

'Prehensions,  for  apprehensions. 

Proggling,  adj.  meddling,  poking. 

Quawking,  part,  the  noise  of  crows,  croaking,  cawing. 

Ragg'd  muffins,  sub.  raggamuffins. 

Ridings,  sub.  the  broad  green-sward  roads  which  intersect  a  wood. 

Roll,  sub.  a  large,  heavy  wooden  roller  for  breaking  clods. 

Rocking,  part,  walking  with  alternate  sideway  motion. 

Scrigg'd,  V  a.  forced,  or  squeezed. 

Searches,  sub.  researches, 

'Serable,  for  resemble. 

Shool,  V,  a.  to  carry  for  a  pretence. 

'Sides,  for  besides 

SUed,  V.  n.  fainted,  sunk  gradually. 

Slive,  v.n.  to  creep  about,  (Ash's  Diet.)  to  do  any  thing  slyly. 

Slove,  prcEt.  of  slive, — whence  slovm. 

Sloomy,  adj.  dully, — perhaps  a  contraction  of  sbw  and  gloomy. 

Snifting  and  snutling,  part,  snuffing. 

Soodles,  V.  n.  goes  unwillingly. 

Spinney,  sub.  a  natural  wood, — a  hedge-row  thicket, — a  young 

coppice.  (Ash's  Diet.) 
Stubs,  sub.  stubble. 

Sprouts,  V.  a.  puts  forth. 

Stall,  sub.  a  shed,  a  temporary  hut. 

Standard,  adj.  trees  or  plants  that  grow  unsupported. 


•■Z22  GLOSSARY. 

Streaked,  part,  stretched.     So  used  by  Chapman. 

Swaliest,  adj.  coolest.  (Bailey's  Diet.) 

Swish,  sub.  a  dash,  as  of  water  falling. 

Taunts,  v.  a.  tosses,  as  if  scornful! jr. 

Tint,  a  contraction  of  "  it  is  not," 

Tinty,  adj.  tinted. 

Tools,  sub.  farming  utensils. 

Tootling,  adj.  the  noise  made  with  the  tongue  in  playing  on  the 

flute. 
Unmatch'd,  adj.  used  here  for  unequally  matched. 
'Veigled,  for  inveigled. 
'Venturer,  for  adventurer. 

Waterpudge,  sub.  or  podge,  a  puddle.  (Johnson's  Diet.') 
Wealed,  pr<et.  of  weal,  to  raise  marks  on  the  skin  with  a  whip. 
Whanged,  prcet.  threw  down  with  violence. 
Witdien,  sub.  quick  beam,  or  quicken-tree.  (See  Ash's  Diet.)  The 

quick-beam,  wild  sorb,  or  witchen,  is  a  species  o/wild  ash. 

(Evelyn's  Sylva.) 
Won't, — contraction  of  "  teill  not." 


THE   END. 


T.  Mil/er,  Printer,  Xob/e  Street, 
Cheapside,  London. 


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