High o'er the road each branching bough
Its globes of silent dew had shed;
And on the pure-wash'd sand below
The dimpling drops around had spread.
The sweet-brier op'd its pink-ey'd rose,
And gave its fragrance to the gale;
Though modest flow'rs may sweets disclose;
More sweet was HENRY'S earnest tale.
He seem'd, methought, on that dear morn,
To pour out all his heart to me;
As if, the separation borne,
The coming hours would joyless be,
A bank rose high beside the way,
And full against the Morning Sun;
Of heay'nly blue there Violets gay
His hand invited one by.
The posy with a smile he gave;
I saw his meaning in his eyes:
The withered treasure still I have;
My bosom holds the fragrant prize.
With his last kiss he would have vow'd;
But blessings crouding forc'd their way:
Then mounted he his Courser proud;
His time elaps'd, he could not stay.
Then first I felt the parting pang;—
Sure the worst pang the Lover feels!
His Horse unruly from me sprang,
The pebbles flew beneath his heels;
Then down the road his vigour tried,
His rider gazing, gazing still;
'My dearest, I'll be true,' he cried:—
And, if he lives, I'm sure he will.
Then haste, ye hours, haste, Eve and Morn,
Yet strew your blessings round my home:
Ere Winter's blasts shall strip the thorn
My promis'd joy, my love, will come.
LINES OCCASIONED BY A VISIT TO WHITTLEBURY FOREST,
NORTHAMPTONSHIRE, IN AUGUST, 1800.
ADDRESSED TO MY CHILDREN.
Genius of the Forest Shades!
Lend thy pow'r, and lend thine ear!
A Stranger trod thy lonely glades,
Amidst thy dark and bounding Deer;
Inquiring Childhood claims the verse,
O let them not inquire in vain;
Be with me while I thus rehearse
The glories of thy Sylvan Reign.
Thy Dells by wint'ry currents worn,
Secluded haunts, how dear to me!
From all but Nature's converse borne,
No ear to hear, no eye to see.
Their honour'd leaves the green Oaks rear'd,
And crown'd the upland's graceful swell;
While answering through the vale was heard
Each distant Heifer's tinkling bell.
Hail, Greenwood shades, that stretching far,
Defy e'en Summer's noontide pow'r,
When August in his burning Car
Withholds the Cloud, withholds the Show'r.
The deep-ton'd Low from either Hill,
Down hazel aisles and arches green,
(The Herd's rude tracks from rill to rill)
Roar'd echoing through the solemn scene.
From my charm'd heart the numbers sprung,
Though Birds had ceas'd the choral lay:
I pour'd wild raptures from my tongue,
And gave delicious tears their way.
Then, darker shadows seeking still,
Where human foot had seldom stray'd,
I read aloud to every Hill
Sweet Emma's Love, 'the Nut-brown Maid.'
Shaking his matted mane on high
The gazing Colt would raise his head;
Or, tim'rous Doe would rushing fly,
And leave to me her grassy bed:
Where, as the azure sky appear'd
Through Bow'rs of every varying form,
Midst the deep gloom methought I heard
The daring progress of the storm.
How would each sweeping pond'rous bough
Resist, when straight the Whirlwind cleaves,
Dashing in strength'ning eddies through
A roaring wilderness of leaves!
How would the prone descending show'r
From the green Canopy rebound!
How would the lowland torrents pour!
How deep the pealing thunder sound!
But Peace was there: no lightnings blaz'd:—
No clouds obscur'd the face of Heav'n:
Down each green op'ning while I gaz'd,
My thoughts to home, and you, were giv'n.
O tender minds! in life's gay morn
Some clouds must dim your coming day;
Yet, bootless pride and falsehood scorn,
And peace like this shall cheer your way.
Now, at the dark Wood's stately side,
Well pleas'd I met the Sun again;
Here fleeting Fancy travell'd wide!
My seat was destin'd to the Main:
For, many an Oak lay stretch'd at length,
Whose trunks (with bark no longer sheath'd)
Had reach'd their full meridian strength
Before your Father's Father breath'd!
Perhaps they'll many a conflict brave,
And many a dreadful storm defy;
Then groaning o'er the adverse wave,
Bring home the flag of victory.
Go, then, proud Oaks; we meet no more!
Go, grace the scenes to me denied,
The white Cliffs round my native shore,
And the loud Ocean's swelling tide.
'Genius of the Forest Shades,'
Sweet, from the heights of thy domain,
When the grey ev'ning shadow fades,
To view the Country's golden grain!
To view the gleaming Village Spire
Midst distant groves unknown to me;
Groves, that grown bright in borrow'd fire,
Bow o'er the peopled Vales to thee!
Where was thy Elfin train that play
Round Wake's huge Oak, their favourite tree;
May a poor son of Song thus say,
Why were they not reveal'd to me!
Yet, smiling Fairies left behind,
Affection brought you to nay view;
To love and tenderness resign'd,
I sat me down and thought of you.
When Morning still unclouded rose,
Refresh'd with sleep and joyous dreams,
Where fruitful fields with woodlands close,
I trac'd the births of various streams.
From beds of Clay, here creeping rills
Unseen to parent Ouse would steal;
Or, gushing from the northward Hills,
'Would glitter through Toves' winding dale.
But ah! ye cooling springs, farewell!
Herds, I no more your freedom share;
But long my grateful tongue shall tell
What brought your gazing stranger there.
'Genius of the Forest Shades,
'Lend thy power, and lend thine ear;'
Let dreams still lengthen thy long glades,
And bring thy peace and silence here.
SONG FOR A HIGHLAND DROVER RETURNING FROM ENGLAND.
Now fare-thee-well, England; no further I'll roam;
But follow my shadow that points the way home;
Your gay southern Shores shall not tempt me to stay;
For my Maggy's at Home, and my Children at play!
Tis this makes my Bonnet set light on my brow,
Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow.
Farewell, Mountaineers! my companions, adieu;
Soon, many long miles when I'm severed from you,
I shall miss your white Horns on the brink of the Bourne,
And o'er the rough Heaths, where you'll never return:
But in brave English pastures you cannot complain,
While your Drover speeds back to his Maggy again.
O Tweed! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green vales,
More than life, more than Love, my tir'd Spirit inhales;
There Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view,
With her bare-footed Lasses and Mountains so blue:
To the Mountains away; my heart bounds like the Hind;
For home is so sweet, and my Maggy so kind.
As day after day I still follow my course,
And in fancy trace back every Stream to its source,
Hope cheers me up hills, where the road lies before
O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of wild Moor;
The keen polar Star nightly rising to view;
But Maggy's my Star, just as steady and true.
O Ghosts of my Fathers! O heroes, look down!
Fix my wandering thoughts on your deeds of renown,
For the glory of Scotland reigns warm in my breast,
And fortitude grows both from toil and from rest;
May your deeds and your worth be for ever in view,
And may Maggy bear sons not unworthy of you.
Love, why do you urge me, so weary and poor?
I cannot step faster, I cannot do more;
I've pass'd silver Tweed; e'en the Tay flows behind:
Yet fatigue I'll disdain;—my reward I shall find:
Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize;
And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue eyes.
She'll watch to the southward;—perhaps she will sigh,
That the way is so long, and the Mountains so high;
Perhaps some huge Rock in the dusk she may see,
And will say in her fondness, 'That surely is he!'
Good Wife, you're deceiv'd; I'm still far from my home;
Go, sleep, my dear Maggy,—to-morrow I'll come.
A WORD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES.
WHEN tender Rose-trees first receive
On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower;
Hope's gayest pictures we believe,
And anxious watch each coining flower.
Then, if beneath the genial Sun
That spreads abroad the full-blown May,
Two infant Stems the rest out-run,
Their buds the first to meet the day,
With joy their op'ning tints we view,
While morning's precious moments fly:
My pretty Maids, 'tis thus with you;
The fond admiring gazer, I.
Preserve, sweet Buds, where'er you be;
The richest gem that decks a Wife;
The charm of female modesty:
And let sweet Music give it life.
Still may the favouring Muse be found:
Still circumspect the paths ye tread:
Plant moral truths in Fancy's ground;
And meet old Age without a dread.
Yet, ere that comes, while yet ye quaff
The cup of Health without a pain,
I'll shake my grey hairs when you laugh,
And, when you sing, be young again.
Both the young Ladies had addressed to me a few complimentary lines, (and I am sorry that those of the elder sister were never in my possession;) in return for which I sent the above. It was received on the day on which the younger completed her ninth year. Surely it cannot be ascribed to vanity, if, in gratitude to a most amiable family, I here preserve verbatim an effort of a child nine years old. I hare the more pleasure in doing it, because I know them to be her own. R.B.
"Accept, dear Bard, the Muse's genuine thought,
And take not ill the tribute of my heart:—
For thee the laureat wreath of praise I'll bind,
None that have read thy commendable mind
Can let it pass unnotic'd—nor can I—
For by thy lays I know thy sympathy." F.P.
ON HEARING THE TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FARMER'S BOY INTO LATIN
By the Rev. Mr. C—;
Hey, Giles! in what new garb art dresst?
For Lads like you methinks a bold one;
I'm glad to see thee so caresst;
But, hark ye!—don't despise your old one.
Thou'rt not the first by many, a Boy
Who've found abroad good friends to own 'em;
Then, in such Coats have shown their joy,
E'en their own Fathers have not known 'em.
[Illustration]
NANCY
A Song.
You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume
That you cherish a secret affection for me?
When we see the Flow'rs bud, don't we look for the Bloom?
Then, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee.
When we Young Men with pastimes the Twilight beguile,
I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy:
And observe, that whatever occasions the smile,
You give me a glance; but provokingly coy.
Last Month, when wild Strawberries pluckt in the Grove,
Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had strung;
You gave me the choicest; I hop'd 'twas for Love;
And I told you my hopes while the Nightingale sung.
Remember the Viper:—'twas close at your feet;
How you started, and threw yourself into my arms;
Not a Strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet
As the lips which I kiss'd to subdue your alarms.
As I pull'd down the clusters of Nuts for my Fair,
What a blow I receiv'd from a strong bending bough;
Though Lucy and other gay lasses were there,
Not one of them show'd such compassion as you.
And was it compassion?—by Heaven 'twas more!
A telltale betrays you;—that blush on your cheek.
Then come, dearest Maid, all your trifling give o'er,
And whisper what Candour will teach you to speak.
Can you stain my fair Honour with one broken vow?
Can you say that I've ever occasion'd a pain?
On Truth's honest base let your tenderness grow:
I swear to be faithful, again and again.
[Illustration]
ROSY HANNAH.
A Spring o'erhung with many a flow'r,
The grey sand dancing in its bed,
Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bower,
Sent forth its waters near my head:
A rosy Lass approach'd my view;
I caught her blue eye's modest beam:
The stranger nodded 'How d'ye do!'
And leap'd across the infant stream.
The water heedless pass'd away:
With me her glowing image stay'd.
I strove, from that auspicious day,
To meet and bless the lovely Maid.
I met her where beneath our feet
Through downy Moss the Wild-Thyme grew;
Nor Moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet,
Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.
I met her where the dark Woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale Moon rising gave
New glories to her cloudy train.
From her sweet Cot upon the Moor
Our plighted vows to Heaven are flown;
Truth made me welcome at her door,
And rosy Hannah is my own.
[Illustration]
Song.
THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER.
ROVER, awake! the grey Cock crows!
Come, shake your coat and go with me!
High in the East the green Hill glows;
And glory crowns our shelt'ring Tree.
The Sheep expect us at the fold:
My faithful Dog, let's haste away,
And in his earliest beams behold,
And hail, the source of cheerful day.
Half his broad orb o'erlooks the Hill,
And darting down the Valley flies:
At every casement welcome still;
The golden summons of the skies.
Go, fetch my Staff; and o'er the dews
Let Echo waft thy gladsome voice.
Shall we a cheerful note refuse
When rising Morn proclaims 'Rejoice!'
Now then we'll start; and thus I'll sling
Our store, a trivial load to bear:
Yet, ere night comes, should hunger sting,
I'll not encroach on Rover's share.
The fresh breeze bears its sweets along;
The Lark but chides us while we stay:
Soon shall the Vale repeat my song;
Go brush before, away, away.
HUNTING SONG
Ye darksome Woods where Echo dwells,
Where every bud with freedom swells
To meet the glorious day:
The morning breaks; again rejoice;
And with old Ringwood's well-known voice
Bid tuneful Echo play.
We come, ye Groves, ye Hills, we come:
The vagrant Fox shall hear: his doom,
And dread our jovial train.
The shrill Horn sounds, the courser flies,
While every Sportsman joyful cries,
'There's Ringwood's voice again.'
Ye Meadows, hail the coming throng;
Ye peaceful Streams that wind along,
Repeat the Hark-away:
Far o'er the Downs, ye Gales that sweep,
The daring Oak that crowns the steep,
The roaring peal convey.
The chiming notes of chearful Hounds,
Hark! how the hollow Dale resounds;
The sunny Hills how gay.
But where's the note, brave Dog, like thine?
Then urge the Steed, the chorus join,
'Tis Ringwood leads the way.
[Illustration]
LUCY:
A Song.
Thy favourite Bird is soaring still:
My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale;
The Stream's let loose, and from the Mill
All silent comes the balmy gale;
Yet, so lightly on its way,
Seems to whisper 'Holiday.'
The pathway flowers that bending meet
And give the Meads their yellow hue,
The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet
Reserve their fragrance all for you.
Why then, Lucy, why delay?
Let us share the Holiday.
Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid,
Are with unfeigned rapture seen,
To Beauty be the homage paid;
Come, claim the triumph of the Green.
Here's my hand, come, come away;
Share the merry Holiday.
A promise too my Lucy made,
(And shall my heart its claim resign?)
That ere May-flowers again should fade,
Her heart and hand should both be mine.
Hark 'ye, Lucy, this is May;
Love shall crown our Holiday.
WINTER SONG
Dear Boy, throw that Icicle down,
And sweep this deep Snow from the door:
Old Winter comes on with a frown;
A terrible frown for the poor.
In a Season so rude and forlorn
How can age, how can infancy bear
The silent neglect and the scorn
Of those who have plenty to spare?
Fresh broach'd is my Cask of old Ale,
Well-tim'd now the frost is set in;
Here's Job come to tell us a tale,
We'll make him at home to a pin.
While my Wife and I bask o'er the fire,
The roll of the Seasons will prove,
That Time may diminish desire,
But cannot extinguish true love.
O the pleasures of neighbourly chat,
If you can but keep scandal away,
To learn what the world has been at,
And what the great Orators say;
Though the Wind through the crevices sing,
And Hail down the chimney rebound,
I'm happier than many a king
While the Bellows blow Bass to the sound.
Abundance was never my lot:
But out of the trifle that's given,
That no curse may alight on my Cot,
I'll distribute the bounty of Heaven:
The fool and the slave gather wealth;
But if I add nought to my store,
Yet while I keep conscience in health,
I've a Mine that will never grow poor.