TALE X.
THE LOVER’S JOURNEY.
The sun is in the [heaven], and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton.
King John, Act III. Scene 3.
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton.
King John, Act III. Scene 3.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact.
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V. Scene 2.
Are of imagination all compact.
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V. Scene 2.
Oh! how the spring of love resembleth
Th’ uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all her beauty to the sun,
And by and by a cloud bears all away.
Th’ uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all her beauty to the sun,
And by and by a cloud bears all away.
TALE X.
THE LOVER’S JOURNEY.
It is the soul that sees; the outward eyes}
Present the object, but the mind descries;}
And thence delight, disgust, or cool indiff’rence rise: }
When minds are joyful, then we look around,
And what is seen is all on fairy ground;
Again they sicken, and on every view
Cast their own dull and melancholy hue;
Or, if absorb’d by their peculiar cares,
The vacant eye on viewless matter glares,
Our feelings still upon our views attend, 10
And their own natures to the objects lend;
Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure,
Long as the passion reigns th’ effects endure;
But love in minds his various changes makes,
And clothes each object with the change he takes;
His light and shade on every view he throws,
And on each object, what he feels, bestows.
Fair was the morning, and the month was June,
When rose a lover; love awakens soon;
Brief his repose, yet much he dreamt the while 20
Of that day’s meeting, and his Laura’s smile;
Fancy and love that name assign’d to her,
Call’d Susan in the parish-register;
And he no more was John—his Laura gave
The name Orlando to her faithful slave.
Bright shone the glory of the rising day,
When the fond traveller took his favourite way;
He mounted gaily, felt his bosom light,
And all he saw was pleasing in his sight.
“Ye hours of expectation, quickly fly, 30
And bring on hours of blest reality;
When I shall Laura see, beside her stand,
Hear her sweet voice, and press her yielded hand.”
First o’er a barren heath beside the coast
Orlando rode, and joy began to boast.
“This neat low gorse,” said he, “with golden bloom,
Delights each sense, is beauty, is perfume;
And this gay ling, with all its purple flowers,
A man at leisure might admire for hours;
This green-fringed cup-moss has a scarlet tip, 40
That yields to nothing but my Laura’s lip;
And then how fine this herbage! men may say
A heath is barren; nothing is so gay:
Barren or bare to call such charming scene
Argues a mind possess’d by care and spleen.”
Onward he went, and fiercer grew the heat,
Dust rose in clouds before the horse’s feet;
For now he pass’d through lanes of burning sand,
Bounds to thin crops or yet uncultured land;
Where the dark poppy flourished on the dry 50
And sterile soil, and mock’d the thin-set rye.
“How lovely this!” the rapt Orlando said;
“With what delight is labouring man repaid!
The very lane has sweets that all admire,
The rambling suckling and the vigorous brier;
See! wholesome wormwood grows beside the way,
Where dew-press’d yet the dog-rose bends the spray;
Fresh herbs the fields, fair shrubs the banks adorn,
And snow-white bloom falls flaky from the thorn;
No fostering hand they need, no sheltering wall; 60
They spring uncultured and they bloom for all.”
The lover rode as hasty lovers ride,
And reach’d a common pasture wild and wide;
Small black-legg’d sheep devour with hunger keen
The meagre herbage, fleshless, lank, and lean;
Such o’er thy level turf, Newmarket! stray,
And there, with other black-legs find their prey.
He saw some scatter’d hovels; turf was piled
In square brown stacks; a prospect bleak and wild!
A mill, indeed, was in the centre found, 70
With short sear herbage withering all around;
A smith’s black shed opposed a wright’s long shop,
And join’d an inn where humble travellers stop.
“Ay, this is Nature,” said the gentle ’squire;
“This ease, peace, pleasure—who would not admire?
With what delight these sturdy children play,
And joyful rustics at the close of day;
Sport follows labour, on this even space
Will soon commence the wrestling and the race;
Then will the village-maidens leave their home, 80
And to the dance with buoyant spirits come;
No affectation in their looks is seen,
Nor know they what disguise or flattery mean;
Nor aught to move an envious pang they see—
Easy their service, and their love is free;
Hence early springs that love, it long endures,
And life’s first comfort, while they live, ensures.
They the low roof and rustic comforts prize,
Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes;
Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear, 90
And learn what busier mortals feel and fear;
Secure themselves, although by tales amazed
Of towns bombarded and of cities razed;
As if they doubted, in their still retreat,
The very news that makes their quiet sweet,
And their days happy—happier only knows
He on whom Laura her regard bestows.”
On rode Orlando, counting all the while
The miles he pass’d and every coming mile;
Like all attracted things, he quicker flies, 100
The place approaching where th’ attraction lies;
When next appear’d a dam—so call the place—
Where lies a road confined in narrow space;
A work of labour, for on either side}
Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide,}
With dikes on either hand by ocean’s self supplied. }
Far on the right the distant sea is seen,
And salt the springs that feed the marsh between;
Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten’d flood
Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud; 110
Near it a sunken boat resists the tide,
That frets and hurries to th’ opposing side;
The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow,}
Bend their brown flow’rets to the stream below, }
Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow: }
Here a grave Flora[6]
scarcely deigns to bloom,
Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume;
The few dull flowers that o’er the place are spread
Partake the nature of their fenny bed;
Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, 120
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume;
Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh,
And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh;
Low on the ear the distant billows sound,
And just in view appears their stony bound;
No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun, }
Birds, save a wat’ry tribe, the district shun, }
Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run. }
“Various as beauteous, Nature, is thy face,”
Exclaim’d Orlando: “all that grows has grace; 130
All are appropriate—bog, and marsh, and fen,
Are only poor to undiscerning men;
Here may the nice and curious eye explore
How Nature’s hand adorns the rushy moor;
Here the rare moss in secret shade is found,
Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground;
Beauties are these that from the view retire,
But well repay th’ attention they require;
For these my Laura will her home forsake,
And all the pleasures they afford partake.” 140
Again the country was enclosed, a wide
And sandy road has banks on either side;
Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear’d,
And there a gipsy-tribe their tent had rear’d;
’Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun,
And they had now their early meal begun,
When two brown boys just left their grassy seat,
The early trav’ller with their pray’rs to greet.
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand,
He saw their sister on her duty stand; 150
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly,
Prepared the force of early powers to try;
Sudden a look of languor he descries,
And well-feign’d apprehension in her eyes;
Train’d but yet savage, in her speaking face
He mark’d the features of her vagrant race;
When a light laugh and roguish leer express’d
The vice implanted in her youthful breast.
Forth from the tent her elder brother came,
Who seem’d offended, yet forbore to blame 160
The young designer, but could only trace
The looks of pity in the trav’ller’s face;
Within, the father, who from fences nigh }
Had brought the fuel for the fire’s supply, }
Watch’d now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by; }
On ragged rug, just borrow’d from the bed,
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed,
In dirty patchwork negligently dress’d,
Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast;
In her wild face some touch of grace remain’d, 170
Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain’d;
Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate
Were wrathful turn’d, and seem’d her wants to state,
Cursing his tardy aid—her mother there
With gipsy-state engross’d the only chair;
Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands,
And reads the milk-maid’s fortune in her hands,
Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years,
Each feature now the steady falsehood wears;
With hard and savage eye she views the food, 180
And, grudging, pinches their intruding brood;
Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits;
Useless, despised, his worthless labours done,
And half protected by the vicious son,
Who half supports him; he with heavy glance
Views the young ruffians who around him dance;
And, by the sadness in his face, appears
To trace the progress of their future years:
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, 190
Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat!
What shame and grief, what punishment and pain,
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain—
Ere they like him approach their latter end,
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend!
But this Orlando felt not; “Rogues,” said he,
“Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be;
They wander round the land, and be it true,
They break the laws—then let the laws pursue
The wanton idlers; for the life they live, 200
Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive.”
This said, a portion from his purse was thrown,
And every heart seem’d happy like his own.
He hurried forth, for now the town was nigh—
“The happiest man of mortal men am I.”
Thou art! but change in every state is near,
(So, while the wretched hope, the blest may fear);
“Say, where is Laura!”—“That her words must show,”
A lass replied; “read this, and thou shalt know!”
“What, gone!”—Her friend insisted—forced to go— 210
Is vex’d, was teased, could not refuse her!—“No?”—
“But you can follow;”—“Yes;”—“The miles are few,
The way is pleasant; will you come?—Adieu!
Thy Laura!” “No! I feel I must resign
The pleasing hope; thou hadst been here, if mine.
A lady was it?—Was no brother there?
But why should I afflict me if there were?
‘The way is pleasant.’”—What to me the way?
I cannot reach her till the close of day.
My dumb companion! is it thus we speed? 220
Not I from grief nor thou from toil art freed;
Still art thou doom’d to travel and to pine,
For my vexation—What a fate is mine!
“Gone to a friend, she tells me; I commend
Her purpose; means she to a female friend?
By Heaven, I wish she suffer’d half the pain
Of hope protracted through the day in vain:
Shall I persist to see th’ ungrateful maid?
Yes, I will see her, slight her, and upbraid.
What! in the very hour? She knew the time, 230
And doubtless chose it to increase her crime.”
Forth rode Orlando by a river’s side, }
Inland and winding, smooth, and full and wide,}
That roll’d majestic on, in one soft-flowing tide; }
The bottom gravel, flow’ry were the banks,
Tall willows, waving in their broken ranks;
The road, now near, now distant, winding led
By lovely meadows which the waters fed;
He pass’d the way-side inn, the village spire,
Nor stopp’d to gaze, to question, or admire; 240
On either side the rural mansions stood,}
With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crown’d with wood, }
And many a devious stream that reach’d the nobler flood. }
“I hate these scenes,” Orlando angry cried,
“And these proud farmers! yes, I hate their pride.
See! that sleek fellow, how he strides along,
Strong as an ox, and ignorant as strong;
Can yon close crops a single eye detain
But his who counts the profits of the grain?
And these vile beans with deleterious smell, 250
Where is their beauty? can a mortal tell?
These deep fat meadows I detest; it shocks
One’s feelings there to see the grazing ox—
For slaughter fatted, as a lady’s smile
Rejoices man, and means his death the while.
Lo! now the sons of labour! every day
Employ’d in toil, and vex’d in every way;
Theirs is but mirth assumed, and they conceal,
In their affected joys, the ills they feel:
I hate these long green lanes; there’s nothing seen 260
In this vile country but eternal green;
Woods! waters! meadows! Will they never end?
’Tis a vile prospect.—Gone to see a friend!”—
Still on he rode! a mansion fair and tall
Rose on his view—the pride of Loddon-Hall:
Spread o’er the park he saw the grazing steer,
The full-fed steed, the herds of bounding deer;
On a clear stream the vivid sunbeams play’d, }
Through noble elms, and on the surface made}
That moving picture, checker’d light and shade; }270
Th’ attended children, there indulged to stray,
Enjoy’d and gave new beauty to the day;
Whose happy parents from their room were seen
Pleased with the sportive idlers on the green.
“Well!” said Orlando, “and for one so bless’d, }
A thousand reasoning wretches are distress’d;}
Nay, these so seeming glad, are grieving like the rest: }
Man is a cheat—and all but strive to hide
Their inward misery by their outward pride.
What do yon lofty gates and walls contain, 280
But fruitless means to soothe unconquer’d pain?
The parents read each infant daughter’s smile,
Form’d to seduce, encouraged to beguile;
They view the boys unconscious of their fate,
Sure to be tempted, sure to take the bait;
These will be Lauras, sad Orlandos these—
There’s guilt and grief in all one hears and sees.”
Our trav’ller, lab’ring up a hill, look’d down
Upon a lively, busy, pleasant town;
All he beheld were there alert, alive, 290
The busiest bees that ever stock’d a hive:
A pair were married, and the bells aloud
Proclaim’d their joy, and joyful seem’d the crowd;
And now proceeding on his way, he spied,
Bound by strong ties, the bridegroom and the bride;
Each by some friends attended, near they drew,
And spleen beheld them with prophetic view.
“Married! nay, mad!” Orlando cried in scorn;
“Another wretch on this unlucky morn!
What are this foolish mirth, these idle joys? 300
Attempts to stifle doubt and fear by noise:
To me these robes, expressive of delight,
Foreshow distress, and only grief excite;
And for these cheerful friends, will they behold
Their wailing brood in sickness, want, and cold;
And his proud look, and her soft languid air
Will—but I spare you—go, unhappy pair!”
And now approaching to the journey’s end, }
His anger fails, his thoughts to kindness tend,}
He less offended feels, and rather fears t’ offend: }310
Now gently rising, hope contends with doubt,
And casts a sunshine on the views without;
And still reviving joy and lingering gloom
Alternate empire o’er his soul assume;
Till, long perplex’d, he now began to find
The softer thoughts engross the settling mind.
He saw the mansion, and should quickly see
His Laura’s self—and angry could he be?
No! the resentment melted all away—
“For this my grief a single smile will pay,” 320
Our trav’ller cried;—“And why should it offend,
That one so good should have a pressing friend?
Grieve not, my heart! to find a favourite guest }
Thy pride and boast—ye selfish sorrows, rest; }
She will be kind, and I again be blest.”}
While gentler passions thus his bosom sway’d,
He reach’d the mansion, and he saw the maid;
“My Laura!”—“My Orlando!—this is kind;
In truth I came persuaded, not inclined.
Our friends’ amusement let us now pursue, 330
And I to-morrow will return with you.”
Like man entranced, the happy lover stood—
“As Laura wills, for she is kind and good;
Ever the truest, gentlest, fairest, best—
As Laura wills, I see her and am blest.”
Home went the lovers through that busy place,
By Loddon-Hall, the country’s pride and grace;
By the rich meadows where the oxen fed,
Through the green vale that form’d the river’s bed;
And by unnumber’d cottages and farms, 340
That have for musing minds unnumber’d charms,
And how affected by the view of these
Was then Orlando—did they pain or please?
Nor pain nor pleasure could they yield—and why?}
The mind was fill’d, was happy, and the eye}
Roved o’er the fleeting views, that but appear’d to die. }
Alone Orlando on the morrow paced
The well-known road; the [gipsy]-tent he traced;
The dam high-raised, the reedy dikes between,
The scatter’d hovels on the barren green, 350
The burning sand, the fields of thin-set rye,
Mock’d by the useless Flora, blooming by;
And last the heath with all its various bloom,
And the close lanes that led the trav’ller home.
Then could these scenes the former joys renew?
Or was there now dejection in the view?—
Nor one or other would they yield—and why?}
The mind was absent, and the vacant eye}
Wander’d o’er viewless scenes, that but appear’d to die. }