THR VILLAGE MINSTREL, AMJ OTIIEII POEMS. CLARE, i THE NORTHAMlTONSHlia; PEASANT; ALiKOR OF “ FOEMB ON RVIlAt LIFE AND SCENERiT.’* <• 1 never lisf pri’sunu* to P irnasse HilU “ but piping- low, in shade of lowly grore, “ I play to picase myself’* S}H‘nser*s Shep. AW. VOL, I. LONDON : PRINTED rORTATLOIl AND HESSBY, FLEET afRlIST; AND £. DllURVy ^TAMFOEB. 1821 . CONTENTS. VOL. T. iNTRODurxioif The Village Miustrol 1 , . , 1 Eifiision * 65 Address; to niy Father 68 Holywell 70 Description of a Thunder-Storm 78 To ail early Cowslip v}i> After reading in a Letter proposals for building a Cottage . . 83 Autumn 86 Dallad — A weedling wild ” 96 On the Sight of Spring * 98 A l^astoral — “ Surely, Lucy, love returns ” ...» 100 Ballad — " Where the dark ivy” . 103 Song — ** Swamps of wild rush-beds " 105 Song — ** The sultry day ” 107* Cowper Green i09 Song — ** One gloomy eve” 1 ^, The Gipsy’s Camp Recollections after a Ramble ] A Sigh—'** Again freckled cowslips” 140' CONTElfTS, To a ]iowcr 141 Ballad — ** When naluvc’h boaiil;^' shone coincide” 11" i'o Poesjr J4(» To the Clouds 147 Song — “ Dropt here and there upon the ilovicr" 14P To u dead Tree. 1^1 The Disiij^poliitment Ib?^ To an htfant Daughter l(j‘J Langle;)' Bush le>4 Sorrows I'or a favourite tabby Cat 3 0.^ The Widower’s Lunionl 170 Sunday I7l A look {tilthc Heavens 176 To a city Girl 177 To Health IhO Absence.* 1B2 Muy-Day 18 (h William and Bohin 189 Ballad — ** I love thee, sweet Mary ” 193 Winter Kuinbuw 197 The Recjuest 19b Solitude JN'I RODUCTION. The former volume of Jonx Clarh'*^ Poems wms published on the 16th of Jiuiuary, 1S20. •It mi- med ialely received tiie most fiallering notice from severui periodical publications, and the interest which was directly taken in the Poet’s late by all ranks, is a circuni stance most clearly indicative of the good taste and generous f -elings of the nation. A pleasant and judicious ucimunt of the author, which was published in the first number of the London Magazine, greatly contributed to this rapid acknowledgment of the merits of the work, and of the justice of the author’s pretensions to the dis- tinction of public patronage. It was written by Mr. Gilchrist, of Stamford, whose kindness to Clare did not cease with that effort in his favour. To him, and all those who, by sympathising with Clare in the days of his distress, have a peculiar title to be named among his benefactors, the pleasure of VUl INTRODUCTION. befriending a man of true genius is of itself a sufficient reward : — The praise is better than the price, The glory eke much greater than the gain — But among these early patrons, one in particular, the Rev. Mr. Mounsey, of the gramnTar school, Stam- ford, deserves to be mentioned, as the first person who subscribed to Clare’s intended publication of his own Poems, and the first who gave any encou- ragem^t to his faint hopes of success. The naming of this project of oui poor author requires that some account should be given of it, as none has ap- peared in the former Introduction. In the summer of 1817 Clare left Helpstone and went into the employment of Mr. Wilders, of Bridge Casterton, Rutlandshire. Here he first met with Patty, who was destined to be his future com- panion through life — but as he observes in one of his letters at this period, “ a poor man’s meeting witli a wife is reckoned but little improvement to his condition, particularly with the embarrassments I laboured under at tliat time.” With the view of Teliefing himself from some of these troubles, and thmlting it but fair that his love of poesy should con- tribute to his support as well as his amusement, the latter only being too great a luxury for a poor man INTRODUCTION. IX to indulge in, he began to consider seriously about publishing a small volume of Poems by subscrip- tion ; and having some time before ascertained, from a Printer at Market Deeping, that the expense of three hundred copies )e family at Milton Abbey sent for him at the bej^inning of February, and with a kindness which inJits manner made a deeper impression on his , jdian even the bounty with which it was inquired into die situation and eir- ^ IJfTRODUCTlOl^. cumstanccs of himself, and of his aged parents: Lord Milton then gave him ten pounds, to whicK the Earl Fitzwilliam added five pounds: and on the following day several articles of clothing and furniture were sent in, to contribute towards the comfort of his father and mother. In the middle of the same mouth, the Marquis of Exeter appointed Clark to come to Burghiey House, where, after learning the simple particulars of his life, and the means he had of supporting himself, his Lordship told him, that as it appeared he was able to earn thirty pounds a year by worWng every day, he would allow him an annuity of fifteen guineas for life, that he might, without injury to his income, devote half that time to poetry. The regard for Clark’s welfare, which dictated this proposal, is no less kind than the liberality of the benefaction ; but unfortunately some of the habits of a literary life are inconsistent with laborious occupations : Clare has often been called from the harvest field three or four times a day, to gratify the curiosity of strangers who Went to Helpstone for the purpose of seeing him. This very considerably interrupted the usual course of his employments^ and prevented him from deriving that income, from the half labour of his life, which had been antici- pated. But his good fortune was determined to supply a counterpoise to every disadvantage. XVI INTRODUCTION. About the very time that the Marquis of Exeter laid 80 amply the foundation of Clare’s indepen- dence on the one hand, the Earl FitzwilHam sent one hundred pounds to his Publishers, which, with the like sum advanced by them, was laid out in the purchase of stock, with the view of securing our Poet from the condition of extreme poverty which otlierwise might await him when, like other novelties of the day, he, in his turn, should be forgotten. This fund was immediately augmented by the contributions of several noblemen and gentle- men*, chiefly tlirough the instrumentality of Admiral • The following are the names of the principal contributors: — His B. H. the Prince Leopold 10 0 The Duke of Bedford The Duke of Devonshire WO The Duke of Northumberland * • . 10 0 The Earl of Cardigan 10 0 The Earl of Brownlow 10 0 Ihe Earl of Wincbilsea 10 0 I%e Earl Manvers 10 0 Ihe Earl of Egremont ^ 10 0 The Earl Rivers • . • 5 0 Kenyon 10 O Lord Northvrick 10 0 Ihrd John Rassell 10 0 J^ordAiden 5 5 % IRioXMcw Bariil^{, Bart. 10 0 . lir Thomas Plumer • , 5 0 %8se Watts Russell, Esq. M. P. 5 0 ^dfraad Lee, Esq. 5 0 With several smaller donations. INTEODUCTION, xvii Lord Radstock, whose zeal for the improvement of Clare’s condition, in every sense, is as much above all praise, as his Lordship’s assiduity in hie benevolent career is probably without parallel. The sums thus collected, amounting to two hundred and twenty pounds thirteen shillings, were, with the former two hundred, invested in the Navy five per cents, in the names of trustees ; and, at Mid- summer, the interest resulting from this source amounted to twenty pounds per annum. This esta- blishment of Clare’s future income on a firm basis was completed by an allowance from the Earl Spencer of ten pounds per ann. for life : his Lord- ship was at Naples when he heard of Cl a re’s talents and penury, in a letter from Mr. Bell of Stamford : he became interested in the fate of the Poet, and promised his assistance. But the honour of being the patron of poesy is hereditary in the family of Spencer, and seems of right to belong to the kins- man of the prince of poets. From these various gifts and annuities Cxare became possessed of an income of forty-five pounds a year, which may be said to have been conferred upon him from the 1st of January, l&W, the re- spective payments having all commenced from that day. His means of living it is hoped will be increased still further by the publication of the xvill lI?TllODUCTl0l!r. present work, and by the profit which may arise from the continued sale of his first production. In the Spring of 18*20, Clare married “ Patty of the Vale,” — “the Rosebud in humble Life,” — or, to speak in prose, Martha Turner, the daughter of a cottage farmer residing at Wqjkherd Lodge in the neighbourhood of Bridge Casterton, whose portion consisted of nothing beyond the virtues of industry, frugality, neatness, good-temper, and a sincere love for her husband ; qualities, indeed, which contribute more than wealth to the happiness of the marriage state; but money is still a desirable accompani- ment, and for want of it our Poet's finances are somewhat too much straitened to support his family with comfort. His household consists a* the present time of his father and mother, who are aged and infirm, his wife, and a little girl who bids fair to be the eldest of a family, which at this rate may be expected to be pretty numerous. They all live together in the cottage in which Clare was born. Since sending his former Poems to the press, Olarr has written the whole of the following col- lection, with the exception of the Excursion to Surghley Park, Helpstone Green, To the Violet, •fhe Wood-Cutter's Night Song, To the Butterfly, l|io Health, May-Day, William and Robin, and the INTllODUCTION. xix first five Sonnets. — The third Sonnet and May-Day were written on the illness and death of a youth who was Claiie’s earliest friend and favourite play- fellow, and the brother of John Turnill, the excise- man who taught Claul to write. Some of these Poems are ten or twelve years old. The pastoral, William and Robin, one of his earliest efforts, exhibits a degree of refinement, and elegant sen- sibility, which many peisous can hardly believe a poor uneducated clowji could have possessed : the delicacy of one of the lovers towards the object of his attachment is as perfectly inborn and unaffected as if he were a Philip Sidney. — It also shews that a style of writing, caught from the accredited pastoral poets, which so many admire, was not above Clakk’s reach, had not his good sense taught him to abandon it for the more difficult but less ap- preciated language of nature. Tlic Village Minstrel was begun in the autumn of 1819 : the writer of these lines saw in November about one hundred stanzas of it, and it was finished soon afier the former volume made its appearance. To the fate of that volume the author alludes with much natural anxiety at the end of this poem, ** And wishes time her secrets would explftiti, If he may live Ibr joys, or sink in And the state of dreary misery in whtch he then XX IKTUODUCTIOK. ifc lived must be his excuse for some apparently dis- contented stanzas about the middle of the poem, if any excuse be necessary for some of the most vigor- ous and beautiful ebullitions of true poesy that can be met with in our language. The regret of a poet for the loss of some object in nature, to which many of the dearest recollections of his earliest and happiest days had attached them- selves, is always vehement ; but who can wonder at or condemn it? If an old post had such attrac- tions for Pope, surrounded as he was with comfort and luxury, what allowance ought not to be made for the passionate regard of poor Clare for things which were the landmarks of his life, the depositaries of almost all his joys? But the poet can be as much a philosopher as another man when the fit is off ; in a letter to the writer of these lines he laments the purposed destruction of two elm trees which overhang his little cottage, in language which would surprise a man whose blood is never above temperatiS^ but the reflection of a wiser head instantly follows; — f ‘ My two favourite elm trees at the back of tbe hut condemned to die — it shocks me to relate it, |but Tbe savage who owns them tliinks |hey have done their best, and now he wants to Imalteuseof thebieiiefits he can get from selling them* |0 tins country Egypt, and was I but a caliph. INTRODUCTIOK. 3dd § “ the owner should lose his ears for his arrogant jpfre^ sumption ; and the first wretch that buried his ue in their roots should hang on their branches as* a terror to the rest. I have been several mornings' to bid them farewel. Had I one hundred pounds to spare I would buy them reprieves — ^but they must die. Yet this mourning over trees is all fooHsh- ness — they feel no pains — they are but wood, cut tfp or not« 'A second thought tells me I am a fool : were pecqf^le all to feel as I do, the world could not be ci^^ on, — a green would not be ploughed— ^a tree or bush would not be cut for firing or furniture, and every thing they found when boys would re- main in that state till they died. This is my indis* position, and you will laugh at it.” A few references are made in the Villa^ Min- aldtel, to country sports and customs, which, per- heed a little explanation, and it is offered die I'kither because it can be given in die Poet's own words. Old BulL — You mean the shagg’d fbal. It'fe a doinmon tradition in villages that the devil often appears iii the form of a shagg'd foal ; and a man ih OUT parish firmly believes that he saw him in that character one momtug early in harvest. * like dffipring of old Ball/ means nothing more diah die fbkl of a mare, ohly boys are particular in sajidg li was just like the foal of such a one.” XXll INTRODUCTION, Fiery Parrot — A candle lighted is placed on the mantle-piece or elsewhere, and on the far side of the house stands a tub full of water, with a sheet over the top, on each side of which, on the edge of the tub, sits a girl, while a joung fellow is se- lected out to sit between them (generally the rough- est and rudest clown in the company) ; who, trans- ported with the idea of having- so pleasant a seat, is generally very anxious and willing to perform it. In proceeding to his seat of fancied paradise, he is to walk backwards, looking earnestly at burning before him; and thus he goes on till he gets between the young maidens, who, as he drops down, rise in an instant, while the loosed sheet gives way, and often lets him in over head and ears. Thus bent in the confines of the tub, he cannot stir till assistance releases him from his uncomfortable disappointnient,'’ ** SheeUclad Crane . — man holds in his hand a long stick, with another tied at Ihe top in the form 6f an L reversed, which represents the long neck ^td beak of the crane. This, with himself, is en- tirely covered with a large sheet. He mostly makes ipXfWent sport, as be puts the whole company to rout, picking out the young girls, and pecking |t tbe bald heads of the old men ; nor stands he upon iie laast ceremony in ttus character, but takes the to break the master's pipe, and spill his beer, INTRODUCTION. xxui as freely as those of his men. It is generally a private caution with one of the actors in this tragi- comedy, to come into the room before the crane’s approach, with an excuse to want several of the candles for alleged uses, till there are but few left> that the lights may be the more readily extinguish- ed ; which he generally contrives to put out on his departure, leaving all in darkness and the utmost, confusion. This mostly begins the. night’s diver- sions, as the prologue to the rest ; while the ^ booted hogs ’ wind up as the entertainment, and finish the play of the harvest-supper night.” “ Booted Hogs . — A kind of punishment to such boys as have carelessly neglected their duty in the harvest, or treated their labour with negligence in- stead of attention ; as letting their cattle get pound- ed, or overthrowing their loads, &c. A long.form is placed in the kitchen, upon which die PojB who have worked well sit, as -e terror and disgrace to the rest, in a bent posture, with their bands laid on each other’s backs, forming a bridge for the hogs (as the truant boys are called) to pass over ; while a strong chap stands on each side, with a boot legging, soundly strapping them as they scuffle, over the bridge, which is done as fast as their in- genuity can carry them.” , " The Dusty or Deaf Miller appem in the TOom||^ with a hunch back, and a brush in one hand, and a xtiy HttMUtJVtiOVt, ' b&^k^ iti the othet. Hi^ meh, a' kind of Tom^Fool^ ttecobipi&nieB him, with pair hdlcms aiid a 'mellhig-hottle. The milter’s ikce is whitened wilh dtalk' or whiting: in his basket he has bread. and chei^, and a bottle of ale, which he on a table behind him, where his wife is placed, as semO- ingly unknown to him, and takes it away as last as he places it thereon. He afiects to be surprised, and pretending deafness, runs over a mess of sense- less gibberish to his man, whom he beats Ibf jhe supposed theft ; till at last, knocking his brush' be- hind, he accidentally brings his wife to the ground, whi^ coming to his knowledge throws him into a great con8temation,and he instantly begins to have recourse to a remedy for bringing her to life, whiob is done by using the bellows an^ the smelhi^- botUe. . On her recovmy they ^bte out of the rcsm, and'the farce concludes A . , the Thro men come in,^ covered* with fl^UiShd wstti 8traw» at thmr back. They ^a^ Iarvest-home«— its Sports described — Harvest Supper — Autumn Scenes — Indications of approaching Winter — Apostn>pbe to Woman — ^The Statute described — Ballad-singers — Poor Sailor — Civil Will"— -Recruiting Serjeant — The Village Feast — ^the Dance — ^Rural Love — ^tiie Cotter and his Friends — his Soliloquy — ^Village Sports enumerated — Lubin in Solitude — the old Castle — Songs of Robin Hood — The Village Green en- closed— its tbrmer State contrasted with its present Appearance — ^Regret at the Change — ^Inclosore depftcated by the Peasantry —their Recollections of former Pleasures— The Gipsies' Camp— their Habits — ^Native Scenes in early Life— the universal Inte- rest they excite— Effect on Lubin— Apostrophe to the dead Shepherd* — IBs preference still of Home to other Places — Hopes and Fears — Anxiety for the Future — ^Resignation. THE A I UaUAUY ^ 18 , ^ VILLAGE MINSTREL. I. While learned poet| rush to bold extremes, And sunbeams snatch to light the muse’s fires, An humble rustic hums his lowly dreams, Far in the shade where poverty retires. And sings what nature and what truth inspires; Tlie charms that rise from rural scenery. Which he in pastures and in woods admires ; The sports, the feelings of his infancy. And such like artless things how mean soe’er th^y be. 4 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. IL Though, far from what the learned's toils requite, He unambitious looks at no renown, Yet little hopes break his oblivious night, ♦ To cheer th"e bosom of a luckless clown. Where black neglect spreads one continual frown, And threats her constant winter cold and chill ; Where toil and slavery bear each fancy down, That fain would soar and sing albeit ill,” And force him to submit to fate's controlling will. III. Young Lubin was a peasant from his birth; His sire a hind bom to the flail and plough, To thump the corn out and to till the earth, The coars-est chance whiclf nature^s laws allow, — To earn his living by a sweating brow; * Thus labour's early days did nigged roll, Mixt with untimely toil ^but e'ett as now, Ambitious prospects fired his little soul. And fancy soared an& sung, 'hove poverty's control. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 5 IV. Small joy to him were childhood’s tempting tricks, Which school-boys look for in their vacant hours ; With other boys he little cared to mix ; Joy left him lonely in his hawthorn bowers, As haply binding up his knots of flowers, listening unseen birds to hear them sing; Or gazing downward where the runnel pours. Through the moss’d bridge, in many a whirling ring; Mow would he muse o’er all on pleasure’s fairy wing. V. The “ I spy,” halloo,” and the marble-ring, And many a game that infancy employs. The spinning-top whirl’d from the twitching string, The boastful jump of strong exulting boys, Their sports, their pastimes, all their pleasing toys We leave unsung — ^though much such rural play W ould suit the theme — ^yet they’re not Lubin’sjoys : Truth breathes the song in Lubin’s steps to stray, Through woods, and fields^ and plains, his solitary way; 6 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. VI. And tell how vales and shades did please his sight. And how the wind breath’d music thro’ each bough. And how in rural charms he did delight, — To mark the shepherd’s folds* and swains at plough. And pasture speck’d with sheep, and horse, and cow. With many a beauty that does intervene ; ^ And steeple peeping o’er the wood’s dark brow : While young hope’s fancy popt its smile between, And wish’d man’s days to spend in some such peaces ful scene. VIL Each opening season, and each opening scene, On his wild view still teem’d with fresh delight ; E’en winter’s storms to him have welcome been, That brought him comfort in its long dark night, As joyful list’ning, while the fire burnt bright. Some neighbouring labourer’s superstitious tale, Hqw “ Jack-a-lantera,” with his wisp alight. To drown a ’nighted traveller once did ^ail. He knowing well the brook that whimper’d down the vale. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 7 VIII. And tales of fairy-land he lov’d to hear, Those mites of human forms, like skimming bees, That fly and flirt about but every- where ; The mystic tribes of night’s unnerving breeze, Tliat through a lock-hole even creep with ease : The freaks and stories of this elfin crew, Ah, Lubin gloried in such things as these; How they rewarded industry ha knew, And how the restless slut was pinched black and blue. IX. How ancient dames a fairy’s anger fear’d. From gossip’s stories Lubin often heard ; How they on every night the hearth-stone clear’d, And ’gainst their visits all things neat prepar’d, As fays nought more than cleanliness regard ; When in the morn they never fail’d to share Or gold or silver as their meet reward, Dropt in the water superstition’s care To make the charm succeed had cautious placed there* b THE VILLAGE IHIKSTREL. X. And thousands such the village keeps alive ; Beings that people superstitious earth, 'fhat e’er in rural manners will, survive, As long as wild rusticity has birth To spread their wonders round the cottage-hearth. On Lubin’s mind these deeply were imprest ; Oft fear forbade to share his neighbour’s mirth : And long each tale, by fancy newly drest, Brought fairies in his dreams, and broke his infant rest. XI. He had his dreads and fears, and scarce could pass A church-yard’s dreary mounds at silent night, But footsteps trampled through the rustling grass, And ghosts ’hind grave-stones .stood in sheets of white; Bread monsters fancy moulded on his sight : Soft would he step lest they his tread shcmld hear. And creep and creep till past his wild affidght; Then on wind’s wings would rally as it were. So 'swift the wild retreat of childhood’s fancied fear. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 9 XII. And when fear left him, on his corner«seat, Much would he chatter o'er each dreadful tale ; Tell how he heard the sound of ’preaching feet, And warriors jingling in their coats of mail ; And lumping knocks as one would thump a flail ; Of spirits conjur’d in the charnel floor ; And many a mournful shriek and hapless wail, Where maids self-murder’d tlieir false loves deplore ; And from that time would vow to tramp on nights no more. XIIL O who can speak his joys when spring’s young morn From wood and pastum open’d on his view, When tender green buds blush upon the thorn, And the first primrose dips its leaves in dew ; Each varied charm how joy’d would he pursue. Tempted to trace their beauties through the day ; Grey-girdled eve, and morn of rosy hue Have both beheld him on his lonely way. Far, far remote from boys, and their unpleasing play. B 5 10 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. XIV. Sequester'd nature was his heart's delight ; Him would she lead thro' wood and lonely plain. Searching the pooty from the/ushy dyke; And while the thrush sang her long-silenc'd strain, He thought it sweet, and mock'd it o'er again : And while he pluck'd the primrose in its pride, He ponder'd o'er its bloom 'tween joy and pain ; And a rude sonnet In its praise he tried, Where nature’s simple way the aid of art supplied. XV. The freshen'd landscapes round his routs unfurl'd, The fine-ting'd clouds above, the woods below, Each met his eye a new-revealing world, Delighting more as more he learn'd to know ; Each journey sweeter, musing to and fro. Surrounded thus, not paradise more sweet, Enthusiasm made his soul to glow ; His h^'art with wild sensations used to beat; Ai nature seemly sang, his mutterings would repeat. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 11 XVI. Upon a molehill oft he dropt him down, To take a prospect of the circling scene, Marking how much the cottage roofs- thatch brown Did add its beauty to the budding green Of sheltering trees it humbly peep'd between — The stone-rock’d waggon with its rumbling sound ; The windmill's sweeping stuls at distance seen ; And every form that crowds the circling round, Where the sky stooping seems to kiss the meeting ground. XVII. And dear to him the rural sports of May, When each cot-threshold mounts its hailing bough, And ruddy milkmaids weave their garlands gay. Upon the green to crown the earliest cow ; When mirth and pleasure wear a joyful brow ; And join the tumult vath unbounded glee The humble tenants of the pail and plough : He lov'd old sports,” by tfibm reviv'd, to see, But never car’d to join in their rude revelry. 1S2 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. XVIIL O'er brook-banks stretching, on the pasture-sward , He gaz'd, far distant from the jocund crew ; 'Twas but their feats that claiip'd a slight regard ; Twas his, his pastimes lonely to pursue — Wild blossoms creeping in the grass to view, Scarce peeping up the tiny bent as high, Beting’d with glossy yellow, red, or blue, Unnam’d, unnotlc'd but by Labin’s eye, That like low genius sprang to bloom their day and die. XIX. <*• O who can tell the sweets of May-day’s morn, To waken rapture in a feeling mind, When the gilt east unveils her dappled dawn, And the gay woodlark has its nest resign’d, As slow the sun creeps up the hill behind ; Morn redd'ning round, and daylight’s spotless hue. As seemingly with rose and lily lin’d ; While all the prospect round beams fair to view, 14^0 a sweet openi^ flower with its unsullied dew. THE VILLAGE MIKSTREL. ]3 XX, Ah, often brushing through the dripping grass, Has lie been seen to catch this early charm, List’ning the ^ love song’’ of the healthy lass Passing with milk-pail on her well- turn’d arm; Or meeting objects from the rousing farm ; The jingling plough-teams driving down the steep, Waggon and cart — and shepherd-dogs’ alarm, Raising i,. bleatings of unfolding sheep, As o or the mountain top the red sun ’gins to peep. XXL Nor could the day’s decline escape his gaze ; He lov’d the closing as the rising day, And oft would stand to catch the setting rays, Whose last beams stole not unperceiv’d away; When, hesitating like a stag at bay, The bright unwearied sun seem'd loth to drop, Till chaos’ night-hounds hurried him away, And drove him headlong from the mountain-top, And shut the lovely scene, andlade all nature stop. 14 THE VILLAGE MIHSTKEL. XXIL With contemplation’s stores his mind to fill, O doubly happy would he roam as then, When the blue eve crept deeper round the hill, While the coy rabbit ventur’d from his den, And ip^eary labour sought his rest agen ; Lone wanderings led him haply by the stream Where unperceiv’d he 'joy’d his hours at will, Musing the cricket twittering o’er its dream. Or watching o’er the brook the moon-light’s dancing beam. XXIIL And here the rural muse might "aptly say, As sober evening sweetly siles along, How she has chas’d black ignorance away, And warm’d his artless soul with feelings strong To teach his reed to warble forth a song : And how it echoed on the even-gale, All by the brook the pasture-^flowera among ; But, kh, such trifles are" of no avail : lliere’s few to noticl^him^ or hear his simple tale. THE VILLAGE MIKST&EL. 15 XXIV. As most of nature’s children prove to be, His little soul was easy made to smart, His tear was quickly born to sympathy, And soon were rous’d the feelings of his heart In others’ woes and wants to bear a part. Yon parish-huts, where wairt is shov’d to die, He never view’d them but his tear would start ; He past not by the doors without a sigh. And felt for every woe of woxkhouse-misery. XXV. O Poverty ! thy frowns were early dealt O’er him who mourn’d thee, not by fancy led To whine and wail o’er woes he never felt. Staining his rhymes with tears he never 8he(||, And heaving sighs a mock song only bred : Alas ! he’ knew too much of every pain That shower’d full thick on his unshelter'd bead; And as his tears and sighs *did erst complain, His numbers took it up, md w^t it o’er again. 16 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. XXVI. Full well might he his early days recal, When he a thresher with his sire has been ; When he a ploughboy in the«helds did maul, And drudg’d with toil through almost every scene ; How pinch’d with winter’s firownings he has been ; And tell of all that modesty conceals, Of what his friends and he have felt and seen : But, useless naming what distress reveals, As every child of want feels all that Lubin feels. XXVII. It might be curious here to hint the lad, How in his earliest days he did appear ; Mean was the dress in which the boy was clad. His friends'so poor, and clothes excessive dear, Ihey oft were foil’d to rig him once a year ; And housewife’s care in many a patch was seen ; Much industry ’gainst want did persevere : His friends tried all to keep him neat and clean. Though care has often fail’d, and shatter’d he hits been. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 17 XXVITI. Yet oft fair prospects cheer’d his parent’s dreams, Who had on Lubin founded many a joy ; But pinching want soon baffled all their schemes, And dragg’d him from the school a hopeless boy, To shrink unheeded under hard employ; When struggling efforts warm’d him up the while, To keep the little toil could not destroy ; And oft with books spare hours he would beguile, And blunder oft with joy round Crusoe’s lonely isle. XXIX. Folks much may wonder how the thing may be, That Lubin’s taste should seek refined joys, And court th* enchanting smiles of poesy ; Bred in a village full of strife and noise, Old senseless gossips, and blackguarding boys, Ploughmen and threshers; whose discourses led To nothing more than labour’s rude employs, ’Bout work being slack, and rise and faU of bread. And: who were like to die, and who were like to wed; 18 THE VILLAGE MIVSTREL. XXX. Housewives discoursing *bout their hens and cocks, Spinning long stories, wearing half the day ; Sad deeds bewailing of the ^prowling fox ; How in the roost the thief had knav’d his way, And made their market-profits all a prey. And other losses too the dames recite, Of chick, and duck,jand gosling gone astray; All falling prizes to the swopping kite : And so the story runs both morning, noon, and night. XXXI. Nor sabbath-days much better thoughts instil ; The true-going churchman hears the signal ring. And takes his book his homage to fulfil, And joins the clerk his amen-task to sing, And rarely home forgets the text to bring : But soon as service ends, he ’gins again . ’Bout signs in weather, late or forward spring, Of lirospects good or bad in growing grain ; And if the sermon’s Jiong he. waits the end with pain. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 19 XXXII. A more uncouthly lout was hardly seen iBeneath the shroud of ignorance than he ; The sport of all the village he has been, Who with his simple looks oft jested free ; And gossips, gabbling o’er their cake and tea, Time after time did prophecies repeat, How half a ninny he was like to be, To go so soodling up and down the street, And shun the playing boys whene’er they chanc’d to meet. XXXIII. Nature look’d on him with a ’witching eye, Her pleasing scenes were his delightful book, Where he, while other louts roam’d heedless by, With wild enthusiasm us’d to look. The kingcup vale, the gravel-paved brook. Were paradise with him to muse among ; And haply sheltering in some lonely nook. He often sat to see it purl along, And, fir’d with what he saw, humm’d o’er his simple song. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. SO XXXIV. When summer came, hovr eager has he sped Where silence reign’d, and the old crowned tree Bent with its sheltering ivyio’er his head ; And summer-breezes, breathing placidly, Encroach’d upon the stockdove’s privacy. Parting the leaves that screen’d her russet breast : Peace !” would he whisper, ^‘dread no thief in me,” And never rose to rob her careless nest ; Compassion’s softness reign’d, and warm’d his gentle breast. XXXV. And he would trace the stagnant pond or lake. Where flags sprang up or water-lilies smil’d ; And wipe the boughs aside of busli and brake, And creep the woods with sweetest scenes beguil’d ; Tracking some channel on its journey wild. Where drifting blue-bells on the bank did weep : O what a lovely scene to nature’s child, Through roots and o’er dead leaves to see it creep, Watofaing on some moss’d stump in contemplation^ deep. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 21 XXXVI. And he would mark in July’s rosy prime, Crossing the meadows, how a nameless fly Of scarlet plumage, punctual to its time, Perch'd on a flower would always meet his eye ; And plain-drest butterfly of russet dye, As if awaken'd by the scythe’s shrill sound, Soon as the bent with ripeiless 'gan to dye, Was constant with him in each meadow-ground, Flirting the withering swath and unmown blossom round. XXXVIL No insect ’scap’d him, from the gaudy plume Of dazzling butterflies so flne to view, To the small midges that at evening come, Like dust spots, dancing o’er the water’s blue ; Or, where the spreading oak above-head grew, Tormenting maidens ’neath their kicking cow ; Who often murmur’d at the elfin crew, •r And from th* endanger’d pail, with angry vow Oft rose, their sport to spoil with switch of murder- ing bough. 22 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. XXXVIII. And he has marked the curious stained rings. Though seemly nothing in another’s eye. And bending o’er them thought them wondrous things, Where nurses’ night-fays circling dances hie, And set the cock to watch the morning’s eye ; Light soon betrays ’em where their routs have been , Tlieir printing foot-marks leave a magic dye, The grass grows gloomy in a darker green, And look for years to come, and still the place is seen. XXXIX. And as declining day his stalking shade A giant monster stretch’d, in fancy’s view, What bustle to his cottage has he made, Ere sliving night around his journey threw Hwn as though he’d broke his neck. Another tries to rise, and wondrous sport they make. TUB TILLAGE MINSTREL. 43 LXXX. And monstrous fun it makes to hunt the pig» As soapt and larded through the crowd he flies : Thus turn'd adrift he plays them many a rig ; A pig for catching is a wondrous prize, And every lout to do his utmost tries ; •Some snap the ear, and some the curly tail. But still his slippery hide all hold denies ; While old men tumbled down sore hurts bewail, And boys bedaub’d with muck run home with piteous tale. LXXXI. And badger-baiting herci and fighting cocks — But sports too barbarous these for Lubin's strains: And red-fac'd wenches, for the Holland smocks. Oft puff and pant along the smooth green plains; Where Hodge feels most uncomfortable pains To see his love lag hindmost in the throng, And of unfairness in her cause complains ; And swears and fights the jarring chaps among, As in her part he’d die, Tore they his lass should wrong. 44 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. LXXXII. And long-ear’d racers, fam’d for sport and fun, Appear this day to have their swiftness try’d ; Where some won’t start, anfl “ Dick’s,” the race nigh won, Enamour’d of somo “ Jenny” by his side. Forgets the winning-post to court a bride ; In vain the mob urge on the jockey-clown' To lump his cudgel on his harden’d hide, Ass after ass still hee-haws through the town, And in disgrace at last each jockey bumps adown. LXXXIII. And then the noisy rout, their sports to crown. Form round the ring superior strength to show, Where wrestlers join to tug edcli other down, And thrust and kick with hard revengeful blow. Till through their worsted hose the blood does flow : For ploughmen would not wish for higher fame, '^an be the champion all the rest to throw ; And thus to add such honours to his name. He kicks, and tugs, and bleeds to win the glorious game. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 45 LXXXIV. And when the night draws on, each mirthful lout The ale-house seeks, and sets it in a roar ; And there, while tiddlers play, they rant about, And call for brimming tankards frothing o’er ; For clouds of smoke ye*d hardly see the door; No stint they make of ’bacco and of beer ; While money lasts they shout about for more, flcsolv’d to keep it merry when it’s here, — As toils come every day, and feasts but once a year. LXXXV. With village-merriments digress’d awhile, We now resume poor Lubin's joys again, And haply find him bending o’er a stile, Or stretch’d in sabbath-musings on the plain, Looking around and humming o’er a strain ; Painting the foliage of the woodland trees ; List’ning a bird that’s lost its nest complain; Noting the hummings of the passing bees, And all the lovely things his musing hears and sees. 46 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. LXXXVI. Where ling-clad heaths and pastures now may spread. He oft has heard of castle and of hall ; And curiosity his steps hath led To gaze on some old arch or fretting wall, W'here ivy scrambles up to stop the fall : There would he sit him down^ and look, and sigh, And by-gone days back to his mind would call, The bloody-warring times of chivalry, When Danes’ invading routs made unarm’d Britons fly- LXXXVII. He lov’d to view the mossy-arched brigs, — Bending o'er wall or rail, the pits or springs Below to mark, — where willow’s dripping twigs To summer’s silken zephyrs’ feeblest wings Bens in the flood, and curv’d its thousand rings ; And where the sun-beam twitter’d on the walls ; And nodding bulrush down its drowk head hings ; And down the rock the shallow water falls, Wild fluttering through the stones in feeble whim- pering brawls. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 47 LXXXVIIL And oft, with shepherds leaning o'er their hooks, He'd stand conjecturing on the ruins round ; Though little skill'd in antiquated books. Their knowledge in such matters seem'd profound ; And they would preach of what did once abound, Castles deep moated round, old haunted hall — And something like to moats still 'camp the ground, Where beneath Cromwell's rage the towers did fall ; But ivy creeps the hill, and ruin hides it all. LXXXIX. And ancient songs he hung enraptur'd on, Which herdsmen on a hill have sat to sing, 'Bout feats of Robin Hood and Little John, Whose might was fear’d by country and by king, Such strength had they to twitch the thrumming string; Their darts oft sifck'd the life-blood of the deer ; And Sherwood Forest with their hams did ring. Ah, these were songs which he would joy to hear, And these were such as warm'd when antique scenes appear. 48 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. xc. But who can tell the anguish of his mind. When reformation’s formidable foes t With civil wars ’gainst nature’s peace combin’d. And desolation struck her deadly blows, As curst improvement ’gan his fields inclose : O greens, and fields, and trees, farewel, farewe! ! His heart-wrung pains, his unavailing woes No words can utter, and no tongue can tell, When ploughs destroy’d the green, when groves of willows felL XCL There once were springs, when daisies’ silver studs Like sheets of snow on every pasture spread ; There once were summers, when the crow-flower buds Like golden sunbeams brightest lustre shed ; And trees grew once that shelter’d Lubin’s head ; There once were brooks swek whimpering down the vale : Th^ brooks no more-— kingcup and daisy fled ; last fhlien tree the naked moors bewail, ) ft bush is left to tell the mournful tale. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 49 XCII. Yon shaggy tufts, and many a rushy knot Existing still in spite of spade and plough, As seeming fond and loth to leave the spot. Tell where was once the green — brown fallows now. Where Lubin often turns a sadden’d brow, Marks the stopt brook, and mourns oppression’s power ; And thinks how once he waded in each slough, To crop the yellow horse-blob’s” early flower. Or catch the “miller’s-thumb”in summer’s sultry hour. XCIII. There once were days, the woodman knows it well, When shades e’en echoed with the singing thrush ; There once were hours,the ploughman’s tale can tell , When morning’s beauty wore its earliest blush, How woodlarks carol’d from each stumpy bush ; Lubin himself has mark’d them soar and sing : The thorns are gone, the woodlark’s song is hush, Spring more resembles winter now than spring. The shades are banish’d all — ^the birds have took to wing. D THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 5e XCVIIl. And oft with shepherds he would sit, to sigh O’er past delights of many a by-gone day. And look on scenes now nali^d to the eye, And talk as how they once were clothed gay ; And how the runnel wound its weedy way, And how the willows on its margin grew ; Talk o’er with them the rural feats of May, — Who got the blosso^is ’neath the morning dew Tliat the last garland made^ and where such blos- soms grew : XCIX. And how he could remember well, when he Laden with blooming treasures from the plain Has mixt with them beneath a dotterel-tree, Driv’n from his cowslips by a hasty rain, And heard them there sing each delightful strain ; And how with tales what joys they us’d to wake ; Wishing with them such days would come again : They lov’d the artless boy for talking’s sake, And^said some future day a wondrous man he’d make. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL 53 C. And you, poor rag^^ed outcasts of the land, That lug your shifting camps from green to green, He lov'd to see your humble dwellings stand, And thought your groups did beautify the scene : Though blam’d for many a petty theft you’ve been. Poor wandering souls, to fate’s hard want decreed. Doubtless too oft such acts your ways bemean ; But oft in wrong your foes 'gainst you proceed. And brand a gipsy’s camp when others do the deed. CL Lubin would love to list their gibberish talk, And view the oddity their ways display ; And oft with boys pursued his Sunday walk. Where warp’d the camp beneath the willows grey, And its black tenants on the green-sward lay ; While, on two forked sticks with cordage tied, Their pot o’er pilfer’d fuel boils away, With food of sheep that of red- water died, Or any nauseous thing thoir frowning fates provide. 54 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. CII. Yet oft they gather money by their trade. And on their fortune-telling art subsist ; Where her long-hoarded groat oft brings the maid, $ And secret slives it in the sybil’s fist To buy good luck and happiness — to li«t, What occupies a wench’s every thought, Who is to be the man : — ^while, as she wist, The gipsy’s tale with swains and wealth is fraught, The lass returns well-pleas’d, and thinks all cheaply bought. cm. In summer, Lubin oft has mark’d and seen How eagerly the village-maids pursue Their Sunday rambles where the camps have been ; And how they give their money to the crew For idle stories they believe as true ; Crossing their hands with coin or magic stick, How quak’d the young to hear what things they ^ knew ; I Whijieold experienc’d dames saw through the trick. Who said that all their skill was borrow’d from Old Nick, THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 56 CIV. And thus the superstitious dread their harm. And dare not fail relieving the distrest, Lest they within their cot should leave a charm. To let nought prosper and bring on some pest : Of dejith of cunning gipsies are possest. And when such weakness in a dame they find, Forsooth they prove a terrifying guest ; And though not one to charity inclin’d, They mutter black revenge, and force her to be kind. . CV. native scenes ! O sweet endearing sound ; Sure never beats a heart, howe’er forlorn, But the warm’d breast has soft emotions found To cherish the dear spot where he was born : E’en the poor hedger, in the early morn Chopping the pattering bushes hung with dew, Scarce lays his mitten on a branching thorn, But painful memory’s banish’d thoughts in view Remind him, when ’twas young, what happy days he knew. THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 5(i CVI. When the old shepherd with his woolly locks Crosses the green, past joys his eyes will fill. Where when a boy he us’d to tend his flocks; Each fringed rushy bed and swelling hill, Where he has play’d, or stretch’d him at his will. Freshening anew in life’s declining years, Will jog his memory with its pleasures still. O how the tl>ought his native scenes endears ; No spot throughout the world so pleasingly appears. evil. Tlie toil-worn thresher, in his little cot Whose roof did shield his birth, and still remains His dwelling place, how rough soe’er his lot, His toil though hard, and small the wage he gains That many a child most piningly maintains;. Send him to distant scenes and better fare, How would his bosom yearn with parting-pains ; How. would he turn and look, and linger there, And wish now his cot and poverty to share* THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 57 CVIII. How dear the soldier feels the relic prove Taken from home, or giv’n by love's sweet hand ; A box that bears the motto of true love — How will he take his quid, and musing stand, Think on his native lass and native land, And bring to mind all those past joys again From which wild youth so foolish was trepann'd; Kissing the pledge that doth these ways retain, While fancy points the spot far o’er the barring main. CIX. O dearMelightful spots, his native place ! How Lubin look’d upon the days gone by ; How he, though young, would past delights retrace, Bend o’er gull’d holes where stood his trees, and With tears the while bemoist’ning in his eye ; How look’d he for the green, a green no more ; Mourning to scenes that made him no reply, Save the strong accents they in memory bore. Our scenes that charm’d thy youth Ve dead, to bloom no more.” d 6 58 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. cx. O samely naked leas, so bleak, so strange ! How would he wander o’er ye to complain. And sigh, and wish he ne’er had known the change. To see the ploughshare bury all the plain, And not a cowslip on its lap remain ; The rush-tuft gone that hid the skylark’s nest : Ah, when will May-morn hear such strains again ; The storms beat chilly on its naked breast. No shelter grows to shield, no home invites to rest. CXI. “ Ah,” would he sigh, ‘^ye, ’neath the clfurch-yard grass, “Ye sleeping shepherds, could ye rise again, “ And see what since your time has come to pass, “ See not a bush nor willow now remain, Looldng and listening for the brook in vain, — “ Ye’d little think such was your natal scene; . “ Ye’d little now distinguish field from plain, ^ Or where to look for each departed green ; ^ All idor^’d mud buried now, as though there nought had been/’ THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. 59 CXII. But still they beam’d with beauties on his eye; No odier scenes were half so sweet to view; And other flowers but strove in vain to vie With his few tufts that ’scap’d the wreck and grew ; And skylarks too their singing might pursue, To claim his praise — he could but only say, Their songs were sweet, but not like those he knew, That charm’d his native plains at early day, Whose equals ne’er were found where’er his steps might stray. CXIII. When distant village feast or noisy fair Short absence from his fields did him detain, How would he feel when home he did repair, And mix among his joys — ^the white-spire vane Meeting his eye above the elms again : Leaving his friends in the sweet summer^night, No longer lost on unknown field or plain, Far from the path with well-known haunts in sight, He’d stray for scatter’d flowers with added new delight. 60 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL. CXIV. As travellers return’d from foreign ground Feel more endearments for their native earth, So Lubin cherish’d from each weary round Still warmer fondness for tlvose scenes of mirth, Those plains, and that dear cot that gave him birth ; And oft this warmness for his fields he'd own, Mix’d with his friends around the cottage-hearth, Relating all the travels he had known, And that he’d seen no spot so lovely as his own. CXV. Nor has his taste with manhood e’er declin'd : You still may see him on his lonely way, O’er stile or gate iu thoughtful mood reclin’d ; Or 'long the road with folded arms to stray. Mixing with autumn’s sighs or summer gay; And curious, nature’s secrets to explore, Brushing the twigs of woods or copse away, To rosun the lonely shade so silent o’er, Sweet nfUttering all his joys where clowns intrude no more. THE VILLAGE MIIJSTREL. 61 CXVI. Ah, who can tell the anxiousness of mind. As now he doth to manhood’s cares aspire ; The future blessings which he hopes to find, The wish*d-for prospects of his heart's desire ; And how chill fear oft damps the glowing fire, And o’er hope's sunshine spreads a cloudy gloom : Yet foil’d and foil’d, hopes still his songs inspire ; And, like the daisy on the cotter’s tonib, In melancholy scenes he 'joys his cheerless bloom. CXVIl. He has his friends, compar'd to foes though few, And like a corn-flower in a field of grain ’Mong many a foe his wild weeds ope to view, And malice mocks him with a rude disdain ; Proving pretensions to the muse as vain, They deem her talents far beyond his skill. And hiss his efforts as some forged strain : But as hopes smile their tongues shall all be still, E’en envy turns a friend when she’s no power to kill. 2 THE VILLAGE MINSTREL, CXVIII. Ah, as the traveller from the mountain-top Looks down on misty kingdoms spread below, And meditates beneath the steepy drop What life and lands exist, ind rivers flow ; How fain that hour the anxious soul would know Of all his eye beholds — ^but *tis in vain ; So Lubin eager views this world of woe, And wishes time her secrets would explain, If he may live for joys or sink in 'whelming pain. CXIX. Fate’s close-kept thoughts within her bosom hide ; She is no gossip, secrets to betray: Time’s steady movements must her end decide, And leave him painful still to hope the day, And grope through ignorance his doubtful way, By wisdom disregarded, fools annoy’d. And if no worth anticipates the lay, Then let his childish notions be destroy’d, And he his time employ as erst it was employ’d. POEMS. EFFUSION Air, little did 1 think in time that’s past. By summer burnt, or numb'd by winter's blast. Delving the ditch a livelihood to earn. Or lumping corn out in a dusty barn ; With aching bones returning home at night. And sitting down with weary hand to write ; Ah, little did 1 think, as then unknown, Those ai-tless rhymes 1 even blush’d to own Would be one day applauded and approv’d. By learning notic’d, and by genius lov’d. God knows, my hopes were many, but my pain Damp’d all the prospects which I hop’d to gain I hardly dar’d to hope. — ^Thou corner-chair. In which I’ve oft slung back in deep despair. 66 EFFUSION. Hadst thou expression, thou couldst easy tell The pains and all that I have known too well : Twould be but sorrow’s tale, yet still ’twould be A tale of truth, and passing sweet to me. How oft upon my hand IVe laid my head, And thought how poverty deform’d our shed ; Look’d on each parent’s face I fain had cheer’d, Where sorrow triumph’d, and pale want appear’d ; And sigh’d, and hop’d, and wish’d some day would come, When I might bring a blessing to their home, — That toil and merit comforts had in store, To bid the tear defile their cheeks no more. Who that has feelings would not wish to be A friend to parents, such as mine to me, Who in distress broke their last crust in twain, And though want pinch’d, the remnant broke again, And still, if craving of their scanty bread. Gave their last mouthful that I might be fed ? Nor for their own wants tear-rags the ripen’d chisters down. AtTTUMN While, on a bank of faded ^rass, Some artless maid the pri^e receives ; And kisses to the sun-^tann’d lass, As well as nuts, the shepherd gives* 1 love the year’s decline, and love Through rustling yellow shades to range, O’er stubble land, ’neath willow grove, To pause upon each varied change : And oft have thought ’twas sweet, to list The sttibbles crackling with the heat, Just as the sun broke through the mist And warm’d the Iierdeman’s rushy seat; And grunting noise of rambling bogs, Where pattering aoofins oddly drop; And noisy bark of shepherds’ dogs^ The restless routs of sheep to stop; 90 AUTUMIJ, While distant thresher’s swingle drops With sharp and hollow-twanking raps ; And; nigh at hand, the echoing chops Of hardy hedger stopping gaps ; And sportsmen’s tiembling whistle-calls Tliat stay the swift retreating pack ; And cowboy’s whoops, and squawking brawls. To urge the straggling heifer back. Autumn-timC; thy scenes and shades Are pleasing to the tasteful eye ; Though winter, when the thought pervades, Creates an ague-shiveittig sigh. Grey-bearded rime hangs on the mom, And what’s to come too true declares ; The ice-drop hardens on the thorn. And winter’s starving bed ptoftfures. AUTUMir. 91 No mubic’s heard the fields among ; Save where the hedge^chats chittering play. And ploughman drawls his lonely song, As cutting short the dreary day. Now shatter’d shades let me attend, Reflecting look on their decline, Where pattering leaves confess their end, In sighing flutterings hinting mine. For every leaf, that twirls the breeze, May useful hints and lessons give ; The falling leaves and foding trees Will teach and cautitfm us to live. ** Wandering clown,” iney seem lo say, In us your coming sM review : Like you we liv^d, but now decay ; The same sad fate approaches you.** 9^ AVTUMN. Beneatli a yellow fading tree, As red suns light thee, Autumn-morn, In wildest raptures let me see The sweets that most thy charms adorn. O while my eye the landscape views, What countless beauties are display’d ; What Varied tints of nameless hues, — Shades endless melting into shade. A russet red the hazels gain. As suited to their drear decline; , While maples brightest dress retain, And in the gayest yelkrws shine. The poplar tree hath* lost its pride ; Its leaves in wan consuusption pine ; They hoary turn onr either side. And life to every gale resign* autumn*. The stubborn oak, with haughty pride Still in its lingering green, wc view; But vain the strength he shows is tried, He tinges slow with sickly hue. The proudest triumph art conceives, Or beauties nature's power can crOwn, Grey-bearded time in shatters leaves ; Destruction's trample treads them down. 'Tis lovely now to turn one's eye, The changing face of heaven to mind ; How^ thin-spun clouds glide swiftly by, While lurking storms slow move behind. « * Nov suns are clear, now clouds j^rvade, Each moment change, and chang'd again; And first a light, and then a shade, Swift glooms and brightens o’er the plain. 94 AUTUMN. Poor pussy through the stubble flies, In vain, o'erpowering foes to shun ; Tlie lurking spaniel points the prize, And pussy*s harmless rate is run. Tlie crowing pheasant, in the brakes, Betrays his lair with awkward squalls ; A certain aim tlie gunner takes. He clumsy fluskers up, and falls. But hide thee, muse, the woods among. Nor stain thy artless, rural rhymes ; Go leave the murderer’s wiles unsung, Nor mark the harden’d gunner’s crimes. The fields all clear’d, the labouring mice To sheltering hedge and wood patrole, Where hips and haws for food suffice, ♦ . That chumbled lie about their 4iole. AUTUMN. 95 The squirrel, bobbing from the eye, Is busy now about his hoard, And in old nest of crow or pyc His winter-store is oft explored. The leaves forsake the willow grey, And down the brook they whirl and wind ; So hopes and pleasures whirl away. And leave old age and pain behind. The thorns and briars, vermilion-hue, Now full of hips and haws are seen ; If village-prophecies be true. They prove that IVinteir will be keen. Hark ! started are some lonely strains : The robin-bird is urgfd to sing ; Of chilly evening he complains, And dithering droops his ruffled wing. 96 ATITVMK< Slow o*er the wood the puddock sails ; And mournful, as the storms arise. His feeble note of sorrow wails To the unpitying, frowidng skies. More coldly blows the autumn-breeze ; Old winter grins a blast between ; The north-winds rise and strip the trees. And desolation shuts the scene. BALLAD. A wEBSLiKO wild, on lonely lea, My evening rambles chanc’d to see ; And muck the weedling tempted me To crop ita tender flower : 3 A. LI* A Da 97 Exposed to wind and heavy rain. Its head bow’d lowly on the plain ; And silently it seem’d in pain Of life’s endanger’d hour. And wilt thou bid my bloom decay, And crop my flower, and me betray ? And cast my injur’d sweets away,” — Its silence seemly sigh’d — A moment’s idol of thy mind ? And is a stranger so unkind. To leave a shameful root behind. Bereft of all its pride ?” And so it seemly did complain ; And beating fell the heavy rain ; And low it droop’d upon the plain. To fate resign’d to fall : F 98 ON THE SIGHT OF SPR^G. My heart did melt at its decline^ And Come,” said I, thou gem divine, My fate shall stand the storm with thine $0 took the roo{ and all. ON THE SIGHT OF SPRING. How sweet it us’d to be, when April first Unclos'd the arum-leaves, and into view Its ear-like spindling flowers their cases burst, Beting’d with yellowish white or lushy hue : Though manhood now with such has small to do, Yet 1 remember what delight was mine When on my Sunday walks I us'd to go, Flower-gathering tribes in childish bliss to join ; THE SIGHT OF SPRING. 99 Peeping and searching hedge-row side or woods, When thorns stain green with slow unclosing buds. A.h, how delighted, humming on the time Some nameless song or tale, I sought the flowers ; Some rushy dyke to jump, or bank to climb, Ere 1 obtain’d them ; while from hasty showers Oft under trees we nestled in a ring, Culling our lords and ladies.” — O ye hours ! I never see the broad-leaved arum spring Stained with spots of jet; I never see Those dear delights which April still does bring, But memory’s tongue repeats it all to me. I view her pictures with an anxious eye, ! hear her stories with a pleasing pain : Youth’s wither’d flowers, alas! ye make me sigh, To think in me ye’ll never bloom again. lOO A PASTORAL. t SuRELT Lucy love returns. Though her meaning’s not reveal’d ; Surely love her bosom burns. Which her coyness keeps conceal’d Else what means that flushing cheek. When with her t chance to be? And those td^l, that ahnost speak A secret warmth of love for me ? Would she, where she valued not. Give such proofs of sweet esteem? Think what flowers for me she’s got— - What can this but fondness seem ? A PASTOBAL. When, to try their pleasing powers, Swains for her cull every grove, — When she takes my meaner flowers, What can guide the choice but love ? Was not love seen yesternight, When two sheep had rambled out ? Who but Lucy set them right 1 The token told, without a doubt. When others stare, she turns and frowns ; When I but glance, a smile I see ; When others talk, she calls them clowns; But never says such words to me. And when, with swains to love inclin’d, To bear her milk I often go ; Though they beg first, she turns behind, And lingers till I ask her too : 102 A pastoral. O’er stepping-stones that cross the brooks^ Who mind such trifles plainly see, In vain the shepherds prop their hooks>y She always gives her hanA to me- To-day, while all were standing by, She wish’d for roses from the bower ; The man too wish’d was in her eye, Though others flew to get the flower ; And striving all they could to please, When prick’d with thorns they left the tree, She never seem’d concern’d at these, But only turn’d to caution me. To-day she careless view’d the bark Where many a swain had cut her name, ’Till whisper’d which was Colin’s mark, tier cheek was instant in a flame: BA|