THE MARCH NOSEGAY
The bonny March morning is beaming
In mingled crimson and grey,
White clouds are streaking and creaming
The sky till the noon of the day;
The fir deal looks darker and greener,
And grass hills below look the same;
The air all about is serener,
The birds less familiar and tame.
Here's two or three flowers for my fair one,
Wood primroses and celandine too;
I oft look about for a rare one
To put in a posy for you.
The birds look so clean and so neat,
Though there's scarcely a leaf on the grove;
The sun shines about me so sweet,
I cannot help thinking of love.
So where the blue violets are peeping,
By the warm sunny sides of the woods,
And the primrose, 'neath early morn weeping,
Amid a large cluster of buds,
(The morning it was such a rare one,
So dewy, so sunny, and fair,)
I sought the wild flowers for my fair one,
To wreath in her glossy black hair.
LEFT ALONE
Left in the world alone,
Where nothing seems my own,
And everything is weariness to me,
'T is a life without an end,
'T is a world without a friend,
And everything is sorrowful I see.
There's the crow upon the stack,
And other birds all black,
While bleak November's frowning wearily;
And the black cloud's dropping rain,
Till the floods hide half the plain,
And everything is dreariness to me.
The sun shines wan and pale,
Chill blows the northern gale,
And odd leaves shake and quiver on the tree,
While I am left alone,
Chilled as a mossy stone,
And all the world is frowning over me.
TO MARY
Mary, I love to sing
About the flowers of Spring,
For they resemble thee.
In the earliest of the year
Thy beauties will appear,
And youthful modesty.
Here's the daisy's silver rim,
With gold eye never dim,
Spring's earliest flower so fair.
Here the pilewort's golden rays
Set the cow green in a blaze,
Like the sunshine in thy hair.
Here's forget-me-not so blue;
Is there any flower so true?
Can it speak my happy lot?
When we courted in disguise
This flower I used to prize,
For it said "Forget-me-not."
Speedwell! And when we meet
In the meadow paths so sweet,
Where the flowers I gave to thee
All grew beneath the sun,
May thy gentle heart be won,
And I be blest with thee.
THE NIGHTINGALE
This is the month the nightingale, clod brown,
Is heard among the woodland shady boughs:
This is the time when in the vale, grass-grown,
The maiden hears at eve her lover's vows,
What time the blue mist round the patient cows
Dim rises from the grass and half conceals
Their dappled hides. I hear the nightingale,
That from the little blackthorn spinney steals
To the old hazel hedge that skirts the vale,
And still unseen sings sweet. The ploughman feels
The thrilling music as he goes along,
And imitates and listens; while the fields
Lose all their paths in dusk to lead him wrong,
Still sings the nightingale her soft melodious song.
THE DYING CHILD
He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.
His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the Spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.
Infants, the children of the Spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at Spring?
He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood's sweet delight.
And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Bird's nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got:
They met with plaintive sighs.
When Winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.
MARY
The skylark mounts up with the morn,
The valleys are green with the Spring,
The linnets sit in the whitethorn,
To build mossy dwellings and sing;
I see the thornbush getting green,
I see the woods dance in the Spring,
But Mary can never be seen,
Though the all-cheering Spring doth begin.
I see the grey bark of the oak
Look bright through the underwood now;
To the plough plodding horses they yoke,
But Mary is not with her cow.
The birds almost whistle her name:
Say, where can my Mary be gone?
The Spring brightly shines, and 'tis shame
That she should be absent alone.
The cowslips are out on the grass,
Increasing like crowds at a fair;
The river runs smoothly as glass,
And the barges float heavily there;
The milkmaid she sings to her cow,
But Mary is not to be seen;
Can Nature such absence allow
At milking on pasture and green?
When Sabbath-day comes to the green,
The maidens are there in their best,
But Mary is not to be seen,
Though I walk till the sun's in the west.
I fancy still each wood and plain,
Where I and my Mary have strayed,
When I was a young country swain,
And she was the happiest maid.
But woods they are all lonely now,
And the wild flowers blow all unseen;
The birds sing alone on the bough,
Where Mary and I once have been.
But for months she now keeps away.
And I am a sad lonely hind;
Trees tell me so day after day,
As slowly they wave in the wind.
Birds tell me, while swaying the bough,
That I am all threadbare and old;
The very sun looks on me now
As one dead, forgotten, and cold.
Once I'd a place where I could rest.
And love, for then I was free;
That place was my Mary's dear breast
And hope was still left unto me.
The Spring comes brighter day by day,
And brighter flowers appear,
And though she long has kept away
Her name is ever dear.
Then leave me still the meadow flowers,
Where daffies blaze and shine;
Give but the Spring's young hawthorn bower,
For then sweet Mary's mine.
CLOCK-A-CLAY
In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-a-clay.
Waiting for the time o' day.
While the forest quakes surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My home rocks as like to fall,
On its pillar green and tall;
When the pattering rain drives by
Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry.
Day by day and night by night,
All the week I hide from sight;
In the cowslip pips I lie,
In the rain still warm and dry;
Day and night, and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay.
My home shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped with flowers,
Bending at the wild wind's breath,
Till I touch the grass beneath;
Here I live, lone clock-a-clay,
Watching for the time of day.
SPRING
Come, gentle Spring, and show thy varied greens
In woods, and fields, and meadows, by clear brooks;
Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy sweetest scenes,
Where peace, with solitude, the loveliest looks;
Where the blue unclouded sky
Spreads the sweetest canopy,
And Study wiser grows without her books.
Come hither, gentle May, and with thee bring
Flowers of all colours, and the wild briar rose;
Come in wind-floating drapery, and bring
Fragrance and bloom, that Nature's love bestows—
Meadow pinks and columbines,
Kecksies white and eglantines,
And music of the bee that seeks the rose.
Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy choicest looks,
Thy bosom graced with flowers, thy face with smiles;
Come, gentle Spring, and trace thy wandering brooks,
Through meadow gates, o'er footpath crooked stiles;
Come in thy proud and best array,
April dews and flowers of May,
And singing birds that come where heaven smiles.
EVENING
In the meadow's silk grasses we see the black snail,
Creeping out at the close of the eve, sipping dew,
While even's one star glitters over the vale,
Like a lamp hung outside of that temple of blue.
I walk with my true love adown the green vale,
The light feathered grasses keep tapping her shoe;
In the whitethorn the nightingale sings her sweet tale,
And the blades of the grasses are sprinkled with dew.
If she stumbles I catch her and cling to her neck,
As the meadow-sweet kisses the blush of the rose:
Her whisper none hears, and the kisses I take
The mild voice of even will never disclose.
Her hair hung in ringlets adown her sweet cheek,
That blushed like the rose in the hedge hung with dew;
Her whisper was fragrance, her face was so meek—
The dove was the type on't that from the bush flew.
THE SWALLOW
Swift goes the sooty swallow o'er the heath,
Swifter than skims the cloud-rack of the skies;
As swiftly flies its shadow underneath,
And on his wing the twittering sunbeam lies,
As bright as water glitters in the eyes
Of those it passes; 'tis a pretty thing,
The ornament of meadows and clear skies:
With dingy breast and narrow pointed wing,
Its daily twittering is a song to Spring.
JOCKEY AND JENNY
"Will Jockey come to-day, mither?
Will Jockey come to-day?
He's taen sic likings to my brither
He's sure to come the day."
"Haud yer tongue, lass, mind your rockie;
But th'other day ye wore a pockie.
What can ye mean to think o' Jockey?
Ye've bin content the season long,
Ye'd best keep to your harmless song."
"Ye'll soon see falling tears, mither,
If love's a sin in youth;
He leuks to me, and talks wi' brither,
But I know the secret truth.
He's courted me the year, mither;
Judge not the matter queer, mither;
Ye're a' the while as dear, mither,
As ye've been the Summer long.
I cannot sing my song.
I'll hear nae farder preaching, mither;
I'se bin a child ower lang;
He led me frae the teaching, mither,
Ann wherefore did he wrang?
I ken he often tauks wi' brither;
I neither look at ane or 'tither;
You ken as well as I, mither,
There's nae love in my song,
Though I've sang the Summer long."
"Nae, dinna be sae saucy, lassie,
I may be kenned ye ill.
If love has taen the hold, lassie,
There's nae cure i' the pill."
"Nae, I dinna want a pill, mither;
He leuks at me and tauks to ither;
And twice we've bin at kirk thegither.
I'm 's well now as a' Summer long,
But somehew cauna sing a song.
He comes and talks to brither, mither,
But leuks his thoughts at me;
He always says gude neet to brither,
And looks gude neet to me."
"Lassie, ye seldom vexed yer mither;
Ye're ower too fair a flower to wither;
So be ye are to come thegither,
I'll be nae damp to yer new claes;
Cheer up and sing o'er 'Loggan braes.'"
Jockey comes o' Sabbath days,
His face is not a face o'er brassy;
Her mither sits to praise the claes;
Holds him her box; to win the lassie
He taks a pinch, and greets wi' granny,
And helps his chair up nearer Jenny,
And vows he loves her muir than any.
She thinks her mither seldom wrong,
And "Loggan braes" is her daily song.
THE FACE I LOVE SO DEARLY
Sweet is the violet, th' scented pea,
Haunted by red-legged, sable bee,
But sweeter far than all to me
Is she I love so dearly;
Than perfumed pea and sable bee,
The face I love so dearly.
Sweeter than hedgerow violets blue,
Than apple blossoms' streaky hue,
Or black-eyed bean-flower blebbed with dew
Is she I love so dearly;
Than apple flowers or violets blue
Is she I love so dearly.
Than woodbine upon branches thin,
The clover flower, all sweets within,
Which pensive bees do gather in,
Three times as sweet, or nearly,
Is the cheek, the eye, the lip, the chin
Of her I love so dearly.
THE BEANFIELD
A beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet
As Araby, or groves of orange flowers;
Black-eyed and white, and feathered to one's feet,
How sweet they smell in morning's dewy hours!
When seething night is left upon the flowers,
And when morn's sun shines brightly o'er the field,
The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers,
And sweet the fragrance which the union yields
To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields.
WHERE SHE TOLD HER LOVE
I saw her crop a rose
Right early in the day,
And I went to kiss the place
Where she broke the rose away;
And I saw the patten rings
Where she o'er the stile had gone,
And I love all other things
Her bright eyes look upon.
If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree,
That whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.
I have a pleasant hill
Which I sit upon for hours,
Where she crop't some sprigs of thyme
And other little flowers;
And she muttered as she did it
As does beauty in a dream,
And I loved her when she hid it
On her breast, so like to cream,
Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone;
Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.
There is a small green place
Where cowslips early curled,
Which on Sabbath day I traced,
The dearest in the world.
A little oak spreads o'er it,
And throws a shadow round,
A green sward close before it,
The greenest ever found:
There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove,
Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love.
MILKING O' THE KYE
Young Jenny wakens at the dawn,
Fresh as carnations newly blown,
And o'er the pasture every morn
Goes milking o' the kye.
She sings her songs of happy glee,
While round her swirls the humble bee;
The butterfly, from tree to tree,
Goes gaily flirting by.
Young Jenny was a bonny thing
As ever wakened in the Spring,
And blythe she to herself could sing
At milking o' the kye.
She loved to hear the old crows croak
Upon the ash tree and the oak,
And noisy pies that almost spoke
At milking o' the kye.
She crop't the wild thyme every night,
Scenting so sweet the dewy light,
And hid it in her breast so white
At milking o' the kye.
I met and clasped her in my arms,
The finest flower on twenty farms;
Her snow-white breast my fancy warms
At milking o' the kye.
A LOVER'S VOWS
Scenes of love and days of pleasure,
I must leave them all, lassie.
Scenes of love and hours of leisure,
All are gone for aye, lassie.
No more thy velvet-bordered dress
My fond and longing een shall bless,
Thou lily in the wilderness;
And who shall love thee then, lassie?
Long I've watched thy look so tender,
Often clasped thy waist so slender:
Heaven, in thine own love defend her,
God protect my own lassie.
By all the faith I've shown afore thee,
I'll swear by more than that, lassie:
By heaven and earth I'll still adore thee,
Though we should part for aye, lassie!
By thy infant years so loving,
By thy woman's love so moving,
That white breast thy goodness proving,
I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie!
By the sun that shines for ever,
By love's light and its own Giver,
Who loveth truth and leaveth never,
I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie!
THE FALL OF THE YEAR
The Autumn's come again,
And the clouds descend in rain,
And the leaves are fast falling in the wood;
The Summer's voice is still,
Save the clacking of the mill
And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood.
There's nothing in the mead
But the river's muddy speed,
And the willow leaves all littered by its side.
Sweet voices are all still
In the vale and on the hill,
And the Summer's blooms are withered in their pride.
Fled is the cuckoo's note
To countries far remote,
And the nightingale is vanished from the woods;
If you search the lordship round
There is not a blossom found,
And where the hay-cock scented is the flood.
My true love's fled away
Since we walked 'mid cocks of hay,
On the Sabbath in the Summer of the year;
And she's nowhere to be seen
On the meadow or the green,
But she's coming when the happy Spring is near.
When the birds begin to sing,
And the flowers begin to spring,
And the cowslips in the meadows reappear,
When the woodland oaks are seen
In their monarchy of green,
Then Mary and love's pleasures will be here.
AUTUMN
I love the fitful gust that shakes
The casement all the day,
And from the glossy elm tree takes
The faded leaves away,
Twirling them by the window pane
With thousand others down the lane.
I love to see the shaking twig
Dance till the shut of eve,
The sparrow on the cottage rig,
Whose chirp would make believe
That Spring was just now flirting by,
In Summer's lap with flowers to lie.
I love to see the cottage smoke
Curl upwards through the trees,
The pigeons nestled round the cote
On November days like these;
The cock upon the dunghill crowing,
The mill sails on the heath a-going.
The feather from the raven's breast
Falls on the stubble lea,
The acorns near the old crow's nest
Drop pattering down the tree;
The grunting pigs, that wait for all,
Scramble and hurry where they fall.
EARLY LOVE
The Spring of life is o'er with me,
And love and all gone by;
Like broken bough upon yon tree,
I'm left to fade and die.
Stern ruin seized my home and me,
And desolate's my cot:
Ruins of halls, the blasted tree,
Are emblems of my lot.
I lived and loved, I woo'd and won,
Her love was all to me,
But blight fell o'er that youthful one,
And like a blasted tree
I withered, till I all forgot
But Mary's smile on me;
She never lived where love was not,
And I from bonds was free.
The Spring it clothed the fields with pride,
When first we met together;
And then unknown to all beside
We loved in sunny weather;
We met where oaks grew overhead,
And whitethorns hung with may;
Wild thyme beneath her feet was spread,
And cows in quiet lay.
I thought her face was sweeter far
Than aught I'd seen before—
As simple as the cowslips are
Upon the rushy moor:
She seemed the muse of that sweet spot,
The lady of the plain,
And all was dull where she was not,
Till we met there again.
EVENING
'T is evening: the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.
The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love's name.
The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.
For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.
A VALENTINE
Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary,
Some of Spring's earliest flowers;
The ivy is green by the dairy,
And so are these laurels of ours.
Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary,
The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery.
The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose,
And aconites under the lilac, like fairies;
The best in the bunches for Mary I chose,
Their looks are as sweet and as simple as Mary's.
The one will make Spring in my verses so bare,
The other set off as a braid thy dark hair.
Pale primroses, too, at the old parlour end,
Have bloomed all the winter 'midst snows cold and dreary,
Where the lavender-cotton kept off the cold wind,
Now to shine in my valentine nosegay for Mary;
And appear in my verses all Summer, and be
A memento of fondness and friendship for thee.
Here's the crocus half opened, that spreads into gold,
Like branches of sunbeams left there by a fairy:
I place them as such in these verses so cold,
But they'll bloom twice as bright in the presence of Mary,
These garden flowers crop't, I will go to the field,
And see what the valley and pasture land yield.
Here peeps the pale primrose from the skirts of the wild wood,
And violet blue 'neath the thorn on the green;
The wild flowers we plucked in the days of our childhood,
On the very same spot, as no changes have been—
In the very same place where the sun kissed the leaves,
And the woodbine its branches of thorns interweaves.
And here in the pasture, all swarming with rushes,
Is a cowslip as blooming and forward as Spring;
And the pilewort like sunshine grows under the bushes,
While the chaffinch there sitting is trying to sing;
And the daisies are coming, called "stars of the earth,"
To bring to the schoolboy his Springtime of mirth.
Here, then, is the nosegay: how simple it shines!
It speaks without words to the ear and the eye;
The flowers of the Spring are the best valentines;
They are young, fair, and simple, and pleasingly shy.
That you may remain so and your love never vary,
I send you these flowers as a valentine, Mary.
TO LIBERTY
O spirit of the wind and sky,
Where doth thy harp neglected lie?
Is there no heart thy bard to be,
To wake that soul of melody?
Is liberty herself a slave?
No! God forbid it! On, ye brave!
I've loved thee as the common air,
And paid thee worship everywhere:
In every soil beneath the sun
Thy simple song my heart has won.
And art thou silent? Still a slave?
And thy sons living? On, ye brave!
Gather on mountain and on plain!
Make gossamer the iron chain!
Make prison walls as paper screen,
That tyrant maskers may be seen!
Let earth as well as heaven be free!
So, on, ye brave, for liberty!
I've loved thy being from a boy:
The Highland hills were once my joy:
Then morning mists did round them lie,
Like sunshine in the happiest sky.
The hills and valley seemed my own,
When Scottish land was freedom's throne
And Scottish land is freedom's still:
Her beacon fires, on every hill,
Have told, in characters of flame,
Her ancient birthright to her fame.
A thousand hills will speak again,
In fire, that language ever plain
To sychophants and fawning knaves,
That Scotland ne'er was made for slaves!
Each fruitful vale, each mountain throne,
Is ruled by Nature's laws alone;
And nought but falsehood's poisoned breath
Will urge the claymore from its sheath.
O spirit of the wind and sky,
Where doth thy harp neglected lie?
Is there no harp thy bard to be,
To wake that soul of melody?
Is liberty herself a slave?
No! God forbid it! On, ye brave!
APPROACH OF WINTER
The Autumn day now fades away,
The fields are wet and dreary;
The rude storm takes the flowers of May,
And Nature seemeth weary;
The partridge coveys, shunning fate,
Hide in the bleaching stubble,
And many a bird, without its mate,
Mourns o'er its lonely trouble.
On hawthorns shine the crimson haw,
Where Spring brought may-day blossoms:
Decay is Nature's cheerless law—
Life's Winter in our bosoms.
The fields are brown and naked all,
The hedges still are green,
But storms shall come at Autumn's fall,
And not a leaf be seen.
Yet happy love, that warms the heart
Through darkest storms severe,
Keeps many a tender flower to start
When Spring shall re-appear.
Affection's hope shall roses meet,
Like those of Summer bloom,
And joys and flowers shall be as sweet
In seasons yet to come.
MARY DOVE
Sweet Summer, breathe your softest gales
To charm my lover's ear:
Ye zephyrs, tell your choicest tales
Where'er she shall appear;
And gently wave the meadow grass
Where soft she sets her feet,
For my love is a country lass,
And bonny as she's sweet.
The hedges only seem to mourn,
The willow boughs to sigh,
Though sunshine o'er the meads sojourn,
To cheer me where I lie:
The blackbird in the hedgerow thorn
Sings loud his Summer lay;
He seems to sing, both eve and morn,
"She wanders here to-day."
The skylark in the summer cloud
One cheering anthem sings,
And Mary often wanders out
To watch his trembling wings.
* * * * *
I'll wander down the river way,
And wild flower posies make,
For Nature whispers all the day
She can't her promise break.
The meads already wear a smile,
The river runs more bright,
For down the path and o'er the stile
The maiden comes in sight.
The scene begins to look divine;
We'll by the river walk.
Her arm already seems in mine,
And fancy hears her talk.
A vision, this, of early love:
The meadow, river, rill,
Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove,
Are in my memory still.
SPRING'S NOSEGAY
The prim daisy's golden eye
On the fallow land doth lie,
Though the Spring is just begun:
Pewits watch it all the day,
And the skylark's nest of hay
Is there by its dried leaves in the sun.
There the pilewort, all in gold,
'Neath the ridge of finest mould,
Blooms to cheer the ploughman's eye:
There the mouse his hole hath made,
And 'neath the golden shade
Hides secure when the hawk is prowling by.
Here's the speedwell's sapphire blue:
Was there anything more true
To the vernal season still?
Here it decks the bank alone,
Where the milkmaid throws a stone
At noon, to cross the rapid, flooded rill.
Here the cowslip, chill with cold,
On the rushy bed behold,
It looks for sunshine all the day.
Here the honey bee will come,
For he has no sweets at home;
Then quake his weary wing and fly away.
And here are nameless flowers,
Culled in cold and rawky hours
For my Mary's happy home.
They grew in murky blea,
Rush fields and naked lea,
But suns will shine and pleasing Spring will come.
THE LOST ONE
I seek her in the shady grove,
And by the silent stream;
I seek her where my fancies rove,
In many a happy dream;
I seek her where I find her not,
In Spring and Summer weather:
My thoughts paint many a happy spot,
But we ne'er meet together.
The trees and bushes speak my choice,
And in the Summer shower
I often hear her pleasant voice,
In many a silent hour:
I see her in the Summer brook,
In blossoms sweet and fair;
In every pleasant place I look
My fancy paints her there.
The wind blows through the forest trees,
And cheers the pleasant day;
There her sweet voice is sure to be
To lull my cares away.
The very hedges find a voice,
So does the gurgling rill;
But still the object of my choice
Is lost and absent still.
THE TELL-TALE FLOWERS
And has the Spring's all glorious eye
No lesson to the mind?
The birds that cleave the golden sky—
Things to the earth resigned—
Wild flowers that dance to every wind—
Do they no memory leave behind?
Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers,
That bloom in wood and glen,
Brings Spring to me in Winter's hours,
And childhood's dreams again.
The primrose on the woodland lea
Was more than gold and lands to me.
The violets by the woodland side
Are thick as they could thrive;
I've talked to them with childish pride
As things that were alive:
I find them now in my distress—
They seem as sweet, yet valueless.
The cowslips on the meadow lea,
How have I run for them!
I looked with wild and childish glee
Upon each golden gem:
And when they bowed their heads so shy
I laughed, and thought they danced for joy.
And when a man, in early years,
How sweet they used to come,
And give me tales of smiles and tears,
And thoughts more dear than home:
Secrets which words would then reprove—
They told the names of early love.
The primrose turned a babbling flower
Within its sweet recess:
I blushed to see its secret bower,
And turned her name to bless.
The violets said the eyes were blue:
I loved, and did they tell me true?
The cowslips, blooming everywhere,
My heart's own thoughts could steal:
I nip't them that they should not hear:
They smiled, and would reveal;
And o'er each meadow, right or wrong,
They sing the name I've worshipped long.
The brook that mirrored clear the sky—
Full well I know the spot;
The mouse-ear looked with bright blue eye,
And said "Forget-me-not."
And from the brook I turned away,
But heard it many an after day.
The king-cup on its slender stalk,
Within the pasture dell,
Would picture there a pleasant walk
With one I loved so well.
It said "How sweet at eventide
'T would be, with true love at thy side."
And on the pasture's woody knoll
I saw the wild bluebell,
On Sundays where I used to stroll
With her I loved so well:
She culled the flowers the year before;
These bowed, and told the story o'er.
And every flower that had a name
Would tell me who was fair;
But those without, as strangers, came
And blossomed silent there:
I stood to hear, but all alone:
They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown.
But seasons now have nought to say,
The flowers no news to bring:
Alone I live from day to day—
Flowers deck the bier of Spring;
And birds upon the bush or tree
All sing a different tale to me.
THE SKYLARK
Although I'm in prison
Thy song is uprisen,
Thou'rt singing away to the feathery cloud,
In the blueness of morn,
Over fields of green corn,
With a song sweet and trilling, and rural and loud.
When the day is serenest,
When the corn is the greenest,
Thy bosom mounts up and floats in the light,
And sings in the sun,
Like a vision begun
Of pleasure, of love, and of lonely delight.
The daisies they whiten
Plains the sunbeams now brighten,
And warm thy snug nest where thy russet eggs lie,
From whence thou'rt now springing,
And the air is now ringing,
To show that the minstrel of Spring is on high.
The cornflower is blooming,
The cowslip is coming,
And many new buds on the silken grass lie:
On the earth's shelt'ring breast
Thou hast left thy brown nest,
And art towering above it, a speck in the sky.
Thou'rt the herald of sunshine,
And the soft dewy moonshine
Gilds sweetly the sleep of thy brown speckled breast:
Thou'rt the bard of the Spring,
On thy brown russet wing,
And of each grassy close thou'rt the poet and guest.
There's the violet confiding,
In the mossy wood riding,
And primrose beneath the old thorn in the glen,
And the daisies that bed
In the sheltered homestead—
Old friends with old faces, I see them again.
And thou, feathered poet,
I see thee, and know it—
Thou'rt one of the minstrels that cheered me last Spring:
With Nature thou'rt blest,
And green grass round thy nest
Will keep thee still happy to mount up and sing.
POETS LOVE NATURE—A FRAGMENT
Poets love Nature, and themselves are love.
Though scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride.
The vile in nature worthless deeds approve,
They court the vile and spurn all good beside.
Poets love Nature; like the calm of Heaven,
Like Heaven's own love, her gifts spread far and wide:
In all her works there are no signs of leaven
* * * *
Her flowers * * * *
They are her very Scriptures upon earth,
And teach us simple mirth where'er we go.
Even in prison they can solace me,
For where they bloom God is, and I am free.
HOME YEARNINGS
O for that sweet, untroubled rest
That poets oft have sung!—
The babe upon its mother's breast,
The bird upon its young,
The heart asleep without a pain—
When shall I know that sleep again?
When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother's breast—
Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest—
Love in the meadow, field, and glen,
And in my native wilds again?
The sheep within the fallow field,
The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield,
And pipe from morn to e'en—
O for the pasture, fields, and fen!
When shall I see such rest again?
I love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers,
For freedom haunts the humble glen
That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me:
I love sweet freedom and the free.
The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.
I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.
There even toil itself was play;
'T was pleasure e'en to weep;
'T was joy to think of dreams by day,
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain,
And dream those happy dreams again?
MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS
The Spring is come forth, but no Spring is for me
Like the Spring of my boyhood on woodland and lea,
When flowers brought me heaven and knew me again,
In the joy of their blooming o'er mountain and plain.
My thoughts are confined and imprisoned: O when
Will freedom find me my own valleys again?
The wind breathes so sweet, and the day is so calm;
In the woods and the thicket the flowers look so warm;
And the grass is so green, so delicious and sweet;
O when shall my manhood my youth's valleys meet—
The scenes where my children are laughing at play—
The scenes that from memory are fading away?
The primrose looks happy in every field;
In strange woods the violets their odours will yield,
And flowers in the sunshine, all brightly arrayed,
Will bloom just as fresh and as sweet in the shade,
But the wild flowers that bring me most joy and content
Are the blossoms that glow where my childhood was spent.
The trees are all naked, the bushes are bare,
And the fields are as brown as if Winter was there;
But the violets are there by the dykes and the dell,
Where I played "hen and chickens" and heard the church bell,
Which called me to prayer-book and sermons in vain:
O when shall I see my own valleys again?
The churches look bright as the sun at noon-day;
There the meadows look green ere the winter's away;
There the pooty still lies for the schoolboy to find,
And a thought often brings these sweet places to mind;
Where trees waved and wind moaned; no music so well:
There nought sounded harsh but the school-calling bell.
There are spots where I played, there are spots where I loved,
There are scenes where the tales of my choice where approved,
As green as at first, and their memory will be
The dearest of life's recollections to me.
The objects seen there, in the care of my heart,
Are as fair as at first, and will never depart.
Though no names are mentioned to sanction my themes,
Their hearts beat with mine, and make real my dreams;
Their memories with mine their diurnal course run,
True as night to the stars and as day to the sun;
And as they are now so their memories will be,
While sense, truth, and reason remain here with me.
LOVE LIVES BEYOND THE TOMB
Love lives beyond the tomb,
And earth, which fades like dew!
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
Love lives in sleep:
'T is happiness of healthy dreams:
Eve's dews may weep,
But love delightful seems.
'T is seen in flowers,
And in the morning's pearly dew;
In earth's green hours,
And in the heaven's eternal blue.
'T is heard in Spring,
When light and sunbeams, warm and kind,
On angel's wing
Bring love and music to the mind.
And where's the voice,
So young, so beautiful, and sweet
As Nature's choice,
Where Spring and lovers meet?
Love lives beyond the tomb,
And earth, which fades like dew!
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
MY EARLY HOME
Here sparrows build upon the trees,
And stockdove hides her nest;
The leaves are winnowed by the breeze
Into a calmer rest;
The black-cap's song was very sweet,
That used the rose to kiss;
It made the Paradise complete:
My early home was this.
The red-breast from the sweetbriar bush
Drop't down to pick the worm;
On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush,
O'er the house where I was born;
The moonlight, like a shower of pearls,
Fell o'er this "bower of bliss,"
And on the bench sat boys and girls:
My early home was this.
The old house stooped just like a cave,
Thatched o'er with mosses green;
Winter around the walls would rave,
But all was calm within;
The trees are here all green agen,
Here bees the flowers still kiss,
But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then:
My early home was this.
MARY APPLEBY
I look upon the hedgerow flower,
I gaze upon the hedgerow tree,
I walk alone the silent hour,
And think of Mary Appleby.
I see her in the brimming streams,
I see her in the gloaming hour,
I hear her in my Summer dreams
Of singing bird and blooming flower.
For Mary is the dearest bird,
And Mary is the sweetest flower,
That in Spring bush was ever heard—
That ever bloomed on bank or bower.
O bonny Mary Appleby!
The sun did never sweeter shine
Than when in youth I courted thee,
And, dreaming, fancied you'd be mine.
The lark above the meadow sings,
Wood pigeons coo in ivied trees,
The butterflies, on painted wings,
Dance daily with the meadow bees.
All Nature is in happy mood,
The sueing breeze is blowing free.
And o'er the fields, and by the wood,
I think of Mary Appleby.
O bonny Mary Appleby;
My once dear Mary Appleby!
A crown of gold thy own should be,
My handsome Mary Appleby!
Thy face is like the Summer rose,
Its maiden bloom is all divine,
And more than all the world bestows
I'd give had Mary e'er been mine.
AMONG THE GREEN BUSHES
Among the green bushes the songs of the thrushes
Are answering each other in music and glee,
While the magpies and rooks, in woods, hedges, near brooks,
Mount their Spring dwellings on every high tree.
There meet me at eve, love, we'll on grassy banks lean love,
And crop a white branch from the scented may tree,
Where the silver brook wimples and the rosy cheek dimples,
Sweet will the time of that courting hour be.
We'll notice wild flowers, love, that grow by thorn bowers, love,
Though sinful to crop them now beaded with dew;
The violet is thine, love, the primrose is mine, love,
To Spring and each other so blooming and true.
With dewdrops all beaded, the feather grass seeded,
The cloud mountains turn to dark woods in the sky;
The daisy bud closes, while sleep the hedge roses;
There's nothing seems wakeful but you love and I.
Larks sleep in the rushes, linnets perch on the bushes,
While mag's on her nest with her tail peeping out;
The moon it reveals her, yet she thinks night conceals her,
Though birdnesting boys are not roving about.
The night winds won't wrong her, nor aught that belong her,
For night is the nurse of all Nature in sleep;
The moon, love, is keeping a watch o'er the sleeping,
And dews for real pleasure do nothing but weep.
Among the green bushes we'll sit with the thrushes,
And blackbirds and linnets, an hour or two long,
That are up at the dawning, by times in the morning,
To cheer thee when milking with music and song.
Then come at the eve, love, and where the banks lean, love,
By the brook that flows on in its dribbles of song;
While the moon looks so pale, love, and the trees look so hale,
love,
I will tell thee a tale, love, an hour or two long.
TO JANE
The lark's in the sky, love,
The flowers on the lea,
The whitethorn's in bloom, love,
To please thee and me;
'Neath its shade we can rest, love,
And sit on the hill,
And as last we met, love,
Enjoy the Spring still.
The Spring is for lovers,
The Spring is for joy:
O'er the moor, where the plovers
Whirr, startled, and cry,
We'll seek the white hawthorn, love,
And sit on the hill;
In the sweet sunny morn, love,
We'll be lovers still;
Where the partridge is craking
From morning to e'en,
In the wheat lands awaking,
The sprouts young and green,
Where the brook dribbles past, love,
Down the willowy glen,
And as we met last, love,
Be lovers again.
The lark's in the grass, love,
A-building her nest;
And the brook's running fast, love,
'Neath the carrion-crow's nest:
There the wild woodbines twine, love;
And, till the day's gone,
Sun's set, and stars shine, love,
I'll call thee my own.
THE OLD YEAR
The Old Year's gone away
To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day,
Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark, or place,
In either shade or sun:
The last year he'd a neighbour's face,
In this he's known by none.
All nothing everywhere:
Mists we on mornings see
Have more of substance when they're here
And more of form than he.
He was a friend by every fire,
In every cot and hall—
A guest to every heart's desire,
And now he's nought at all.
Old papers thrown away,
Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
Are things identified;
But time once torn away
No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year's Day
Left the Old Year lost to all.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
MAYING; OR, A LOVE OF FLOWERS
Upon a day, a merry day,
When summer in her best,
Like Sunday belles, prepares for play,
And joins each merry guest,
A maid, as wild as is a bird
That never knew a cage,
Went out her parents' kine to herd,
And Jocky, as her page,
Must needs go join her merry toils;
A silly shepherd he,
And little thought the aching broils
That in his heart would be;
For he as yet knew nought of love,
And nought of love knew she;
Yet without learning love can move
The wildest to agree.
The wind, enamoured of the maid,
Around her drapery swims,
And moulds in luscious masquerade
Her lovely shape and limbs.
Smith's "Venus stealing Cupid's bow"
In marble hides as fine;
But hers were life and soul, whose glow
Makes meaner things divine.
In sooth she was a lovely toy—
A worship-moving thing
As ever brought the season joy,
Or beautified the Spring;
So sweet a thing no heart might hurt,
Gay as a butterfly;
Tho' Cupid chased 'twas half in sport—
He meant not to destroy.
When speaking, words with breathing grace
Her sweet lips seeming wooed,
Pausing to leave so sweet a place
Ere they could part for good—
Those lips that pouted from her face,
As the wild rose bursts the bud
Which June, so eager to embrace,
Tempts from beneath its hood.
Her eyes, like suns, did seem to light
The beauties of her face,
Suffusing all her forehead white
And cheeks of rosy grace,
Her bosom swelled to pillows large,
Till her so taper waist
Scarce able seemed to bear the charge
Of each lawn-bursting breast.
A very flower! how she did shine.
Her beauty all displaying!
In truth this modern Proserpine
Might set the angels maying,
As, like a fairy mid the flowers,
She flew to this, now that;
And some she braided in her hair—
Some wreathed within her hat.
Then oft she skipt, in bowers to hide,
By Cupid led, I ween,
Putting her bosom's lawn aside,
To place some thyme at ween.
The shepherd saw her skin so white—
Two twin suns newly risen:
Tho' love had chained him there till night,
Who would have shunned the prison?
Then off again she skipt, and flew
With foot so light and little
That Cinderella's fancy shoe
Had fit her to a tittle.
The shepherd's heart, like playing coal,
Beat as 't would leave the socket:
He sighed, but thought it, silly fool,
The watch within his pocket.
But bold in love grow silly sheep,
And so right bold grew he;
He ran; she fled; and at bo-peep
She met him round a tree.
A thorn, enamoured like the swain.
Caught at her lily arm.
And then good faith, to ease her pain,
Love had a double charm.
She sighed; he wished it well, I wis;
The place was sadly swollen;
And then he took a willing kiss,
And made believe 't was stolen;
Then made another make-believe,
Till thefts grew past concealing,
For when love once begins to thieve
There grows no end to stealing.
They played and toyed till down the skies
The sun had taken flight,
And still a sun was in her eyes
To keep away the night;
And there he talked of love so well,
Or else he talked so ill,
That soon the priest was sought to tell
The story better still.
TWO SONNETS TO MARY
I
I met thee like the morning, though more fair,
And hopes 'gan travel for a glorious day;
And though night met them ere they were aware,
Leading the joyous pilgrims all astray,
Yet know I not, though they did miss their way,
That joyed so much to meet thee, if they are
To blame or bless the fate that bade such be.
Thou seem'dst an angel when I met thee first,
Nor has aught made thee otherwise to me:
Possession has not cloyed my love, nor curst
Fancy's wild visions with reality.
Thou art an angel still; and Hope, awoke
From the fond spell that early raptures nurst,
Still feels a joy to think that spell ne'er broke.
II
The flower that's gathered beauty soon forsakes;
The bliss grows feeble as we gain the prize;
Love dreams of joy, and in possession wakes,
Scarce time enough to hail it ere it dies:
Life intermingles, with its cares and sighs,
And rapture's dreams are ended. Heavenly flower!
It is not so with thee! Still fancy's power
Throws rainbow halos round thee, and thine eyes,
That once did steal their sapphire blue from even,
Are beaming on; thy cheeks' bewitching dye,
Where partial roses all their blooms had given,
Still in fond memory with the rose can vie;
And thy sweet bosom, which to view was heaven,
No lily yet a fairer hue supplies.
THE VANITIES OF LIFE
[The reader has been made acquainted with the circumstances under which this poem was written. It was included by Mr. J. H. Dixon in his "Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England" (edited by Robert Bell), with the following prefatory note:—
"The poem was, probably, as Clare supposes, written about the commencement of the 18th century, and the unknown author appears to have been deeply imbued with the spirit of the popular devotional writers of the preceding century, as Herbert, Quarles, &c., but seems to have modelled his smoother and more elegant versification after that of the poetic school of his own times."
Montgomery's criticism on publishing it in the "Sheffield Iris" was as follows:—
"Long as the poem appears to the eye, it will abundantly repay the trouble of perusal, being full of condensed and admirable thought, as well as diversified with exuberant imagery, and embellished with peculiar felicity of language. The moral points in the closing couplets of the stanzas are often powerfully enforced."]
"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."—Solomon.
What are life's joys and gains?
What pleasures crowd its ways,
That man should take such pains
To seek them all his days?
Sift this untoward strife
On which the mind is bent:
See if this chaff of life
Is worth the trouble spent.
Is pomp thy heart's desire?
Is power thy climbing aim?
Is love thy folly's fire?
Is wealth thy restless game?
Pomp, power, love, wealth, and all
Time's touchstone shall destroy,
And, like base coin, prove all
Vain substitutes for joy.
Dost think that pride exalts
Thyself in other's eyes,
And hides thy folly's faults,
Which reason will despise?
Dost strut, and turn, and stride,
Like a walking weathercock?
The shadow by thy side
Will be thy ape, and mock.
Dost think that power's disguise
Can make thee mighty seem?
It may in folly's eyes,
But not in worth's esteem,
When all that thou canst ask,
And all that she can give,
Is but a paltry mask
Which tyrants wear and live.
Go, let thy fancies range
And ramble where they may;
View power in every change,
And what is the display?
—The county magistrate,
The lowest shade in power,
To rulers of the state,
The meteors of an hour:—
View all, and mark the end
Of every proud extreme,
Where flattery turns a friend,
And counterfeits esteem;
Where worth is aped in show,
That doth her name purloin,
Like toys of golden glow
Oft sold for copper coin.
Ambition's haughty nod
With fancies may deceive,
Nay, tell thee thou'rt a god,
And wilt thou such believe?
Go, bid the seas be dry;
Go, hold earth like a ball,
Or throw her fancies by,
For God can do it all.
Dost thou possess the dower
Of laws to spare or kill?
Call it not heavenly power
When but a tyrant's will,
Think what thy God would do,
And know thyself a fool,
Nor, tyrant-like, pursue
Where He alone can rule.
Dost think, when wealth is won,
Thy heart has its desire?
Hold ice up to the sun,
And wax before the fire;
Nor triumph o'er the reign
Which they so soon resign:
Of this world weigh the gain,
Insurance safe is thine.
Dost think life's peace secure
In houses and in land?
Go, read the fairy lure,
And twist a cord in sand;
Lodge stones upon the sky,
Hold water in a sieve,
Nor give such tales the lie,
And still thine own believe.
Whoso with riches deals,
And thinks peace bought and sold,
Will find them slipping eels,
That slide the firmest hold:
Though sweet as sleep with health
Thy lulling luck may be,
Pride may o'erstride thy wealth,
And check prosperity.
Dost think that beauty's power
Life sweetest pleasure gives?
Go, pluck the summer flower,
And see how long it lives:
Behold, the rays glide on
Along the summer plain
Ere thou canst say they're gone:
Know such is beauty's reign.
Look on the brightest eye,
Nor teach it to be proud;
View next the clearest sky,
And thou shalt find a cloud;
Nor call each face ye meet
An angel's, 'cause it's fair,
But look beneath your feet,
And think of what ye are.
Who thinks that love doth live
In beauty's tempting show,
Shall find his hopes ungive,
And melt in reason's thaw.
Who thinks that pleasure lies
In every fairy bower,
Shall oft, to his surprise,
Find poison in the flower.
Dost lawless pleasures grasp?
Judge not they'll bring thee joy:
Their flowers but hide the asp,
Whose poison will destroy.
Who trusts a harlot's smile,
And by her wiles is led,
Plays, with a sword the while
Hung dropping o'er his head.
Dost doubt my warning song?
Then doubt the sun gives light,
Doubt truth to teach thee wrong,
Think wrong alone is right;
And live as lives the knave,
Intrigue's deceiving guest;
Be tyrant, or be slave,
As suits thy ends the best.
Or pause amid thy toils
For visions won and lost,
And count the fancied spoils,
If e'er they quit the cost:
And if they still possess
Thy mind, as worthy things,
Pick straws with Bedlam Bess,
And call them diamond rings.
Thy folly's past advice,
Thy heart's already won,
Thy fall's above all price,
So go, and be undone;
For all who thus prefer
The seeming great for small
Shall make wine vinegar,
And sweetest honey gall.
Would'st heed the truths I sing,
To profit wherewithal,
Clip folly's wanton wing,
And keep her within call.
I've little else to give,
But thou canst easy try;
The lesson how to live
Is but to learn to die.