Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 12

As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon, He roves, half indolent and self-employed, To rob the little birds Of hips and pendent haws,

And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils, And rambling bramble-berries, pulp and sweet, Arching their p.r.i.c.kly trails Half oer the narrow lane:

Noting the hedger front with stubborn face The dank blea wind, that whistles thinly by His leathern garb, thorn proof, And cheek red hot with toil.

While oer the pleachy lands of mellow brown, The mower's stubbling scythe clogs to his foot The ever eking whisp, With sharp and sudden jerk,

Till into formal rows the russet shocks Crowd the blank field to thatch time-weathered barns, And hovels rude repair, Stript by disturbing winds.

See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hare Scampers circuitous, with startled ears p.r.i.c.kt up, then squat, as bye She brushes to the woods,

Where reeded gra.s.s, breast-high and undisturbed, Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing winds Soften her rigid fears, And lull to calm repose.

Wild sorceress! me thy restless mood delights, More than the stir of summer's crowded scenes, Where, jostled in the din, Joy palled my ear with song;

Heart-sickening for the silence that is thine, Not broken inharmoniously, as now That lone and vagrant bee Booms faint with wearp chime.

Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woods In tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath, Some sickly cankered leaf Let go its hold, and die.

And now the bickering storm, with sudden start, In flirting fits of anger carps aloud, Thee urging to thine end, Sore wept by troubled skies.

And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delight To show me visions of most gorgeous dyes, Haply forgetting now They but prepare thy shroud;

Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades, Improvident of waste, till every bough Burns with thy mellow touch Disorderly divine.

Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream Droop faintly, and so sicken for thine end, As sad the winds sink low In dirges for their queen;

While in the moment of their weary pause, To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark Starts from his shielding clod, s.n.a.t.c.hing sweet sc.r.a.ps of song.

Thy life is waning now, and silence tries To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds.

As stooping low she bends, Forming with leaves thy grave;

To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods, Till parch-lipped summer pines in drought away, Then from thine ivied trance Awake to glories new.

Summer Images

Now swarthy summer, by rude health embrowned, Precedence takes of rosy fingered spring; And laughing joy, with wild flowers pranked and crowned, A wild and giddy thing, And health robust, from every care unbound, Come on the zephyr's wing, And cheer the toiling clown.

Happy as holiday-enjoying face, Loud tongued, and "merry as a marriage bell,"

Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place; And where the troubled dwell, Thy witching smiles wean them of half their cares; And from thy sunny spell, They greet joy unawares.

Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude, And mantle laced with gems of garish light, Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude, And in the world's despite, Share the rude mirth that thy own heart beguiles: If haply so I might Win pleasure from thy smiles,

Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers, In nightly revels or in city streets; But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears, That one at leisure meets In the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn, Or fields, where bee-fly greets The ears with mellow horn.

The green-swathed gra.s.shopper, on treble pipe, Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks; There bees go courting every flower that's ripe, On baulks and sunny banks; And droning dragon-fly, on rude ba.s.soon, Attempts to give G.o.d thanks In no discordant tune.

There speckled thrush, by self-delight embued, There sings unto himself for joy's amends, And drinks the honey dew of solitude.

There happiness attends With inbred joy until the heart oerflow, Of which the world's rude friends, Nought heeding, nothing know.

There the gay river, laughing as it goes, Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides, And to the calm of heart, in calmness shows What pleasure there abides, To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free: Spots solitude provides To muse, and happy be.

There ruminating neath some pleasant bush, On sweet silk gra.s.s I stretch me at mine ease, Where I can pillow on the yielding rush; And, acting as I please, Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie, Mark the wind-shaken trees, And cloud-betravelled sky.

And think me how some barter joy for care, And waste life's summer-health in riot rude, Of nature, nor of nature's sweets aware; Where pa.s.sions vain and rude By calm reflection, softened are and still; And the heart's better mood Feels sick of doing ill.

There I can live, and at my leisure seek Joys far from cold restraints--not fearing pride-- Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek Rude health, so long denied.

Here poor integrity can sit at ease, And list self-satisfied The song of honey-bees;

And green lane traverse heedless where it goes Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies Rude battered finger post, that stooping shows Where the snug mystery lies; And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown, Clears up the short surprise, And shows a peeping town.

I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn Of beauty, feeding on joy's luscious hours; The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn, Agape for honey showers; And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew Of morning's early hours, Like gold yminted new;

And mark by rustic bridge, oer shallow stream, Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled, Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream; Who now, in gestures wild, Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall, Feeling self-gratified, Nor fearing human thrall:

Then thread the sunny valley laced with streams, Or forests rude, and the oershadowed brims Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams, And streaks his listless limbs; Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long, Where joy's wild impulse swims In one continued song.

I love at early morn, from new mown swath, To see the startled frog his route pursue; To mark while, leaping oer the dripping path, His bright sides scatter dew, The early lark that, from its bustle flies, To hail his matin new; And watch him to the skies:

To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent, The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn, With earnest heed, and tremulous intent, Frail brother of the morn, That from the tiny bents and misted leaves Withdraws his timid horn, And fearful vision weaves:

Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top, Wont to be first unsealing morning's eye, Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop Of honey on his thigh; To see him seek morn's airy couch to sing, Until the golden sky Bepaint his russet wing:

And sawning boy by tanning corn espy, With clapping noise to startle birds away, And hear him bawl to every pa.s.ser by To know the hour of day; And see the uncradled breeze, refreshed and strong, With waking blossoms play, And breathe eolian song.

I love the south-west wind, or low or loud, And not the less when sudden drops of rain Moisten my pallid cheek from ebon cloud, Threatening soft showers again, That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds, Summer's sweet breath unchain, And wake harmonious sounds.

Rich music breathes in summer's every sound; And in her harmony of varied greens, Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around Much beauty intervenes, Filling with harmony the ear and eye; While oer the mingling scenes Far spreads the laughing sky.

And wind-enamoured aspin--mark the leaves Turn up their silver lining to the sun, And list! the brustling noise, that oft deceives, And makes the sheep-boy run; The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers, He thinks the rain begun, And hastes to sheltering bowers.

But now the evening curdles dank and grey, Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed; And moping owls, to close the lids of day, On drowsy wing proceed; While chickering crickets, tremulous and long, Light's farewell inly heed, And give it parting song.

The pranking bat its nighty circlet makes; The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew Oer meadows dew-besprent; and beetle wakes Enquiries ever new, Teazing each pa.s.sing ear with murmurs vain, As wanting to pursue His homeward path again.

Hark to the melody of distant bells That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds By fitful starts, then musically swells Oer the dun stilly grounds; While on the meadow bridge the pausing boy Listens the mellow sounds, And hums in vacant joy.

Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round His evening f.a.ggot, and with every stride His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound.

Till silly sheep beside His path start tremulous, and once again Look back dissatisfied, Then scour the dewy plain.

How sweet the soothing calm that smoothly stills Oer the heart's every sense its opiate dews, In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills!

That softens and subdues, With gentle quiet's bland and sober train, Which dreamy eve renews In many a mellow strain.

I love to walk the fields, they are to me A legacy no evil can destroy; They, like a spell, set every rapture free That cheered me when a boy.

Play--pastime--all time's blotting pen concealed, Comes like a new-born joy, To greet me in the field.

For nature's objects ever harmonize With emulous taste, that vulgar deed annoys; It loves in quiet moods to sympathize, And meet vibrating joys Oer nature's pleasant things; nor will it deem Pastime the muse employs A vain obtrusive theme.