Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 23

_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 oer 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, The whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.

I have a pleasant hill Which I sit upon for hours, Where she cropt 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 trace, The dearest in the world.

A little oak spreads oer 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.

_Autumn_

I love the fitful gust that shakes The cas.e.m.e.nt 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 c.o.c.k 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.

_Invitation to Eternity_

Say, wilt thou go with me, sweet maid, Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me Through the valley-depths of shade, Of bright and dark obscurity; Where the path has lost its way, Where the sun forgets the day, Where there's nor light nor life to see, Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me?

Where stones will turn to flooding streams, Where plains will rise like ocean's waves, Where life will fade like visioned dreams And darkness darken into caves, Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me Through this sad non-ident.i.ty Where parents live and are forgot, And sisters live and know us not?

Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me In this strange death of life to be, To live in death and be the same, Without this life or home or name, At once to be and not to be-- That was and is not--yet to see Things pa.s.s like shadows, and the sky Above, below, around us lie?

The land of shadows wilt thou trace, Nor look nor know each other's face; The present marred with reason gone, And past and present both as one?

Say, maiden, can thy life be led To join the living and the dead?

Then trace thy footsteps on with me: We are wed to one eternity.

_The Maple Tree_

The maple with its ta.s.sel flowers of green, That turns to red a staghorn-shaped seed, Just spreading out its scolloped leaves is seen, Of yellowish hue, yet beautifully green; Bark ribbed like corderoy in seamy screed, That farther up the stem is smoother seen, Where the white hemlock with white umbel flowers Up each spread stoven to the branches towers; And moss around the stoven spreads, dark green, And blotched leaved orchis, and the blue bell flowers; Thickly they grow and neath the leaves are seen; I love to see them gemmed with morning hours, I love the lone green places where they be, And the sweet clothing of the maple tree.

_House or Window Flies_

These little window dwellers, in cottages and halls, were always entertaining to me; after dancing in the window all day from sunrise to sunset they would sip of the tea, drink of the beer, and eat of the sugar, and be welcome all summer long. They look like things of mind or fairies, and seem pleased or dull as the weather permits. In many clean cottages and genteel houses, they are allowed every liberty to creep, fly, or do as they like; and seldom or ever do wrong. In fact they are the small or dwarfish portion of our own family, and so many fairy familiars that we know and treat as one of ourselves.

_Dewdrops_

The dewdrops on every blade of gra.s.s are so much like silver drops that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, and those sprinkled on the ivy-woven beds of primroses underneath the hazels, whitethorns and maples are so like gold beads that I stooped down to feel if they were hard, but they melted from my finger. And where the dew lies on the primrose, the violet and whitethorn leaves they are emerald and beryl, yet nothing more than the dews of the morning on the budding leaves; nay, the road gra.s.ses are covered with gold and silver beads, and the further we go the brighter they seem to shine, like solid gold and silver. It is nothing more than the sun's light and shade upon them in the dewy morning; every thorn-point and every bramble-spear has its trembling ornament: till the wind gets a little brisker, and then all is shaken off, and all the shining jewelry pa.s.ses away into a common spring morning full of budding leaves, primroses, violets, vernal speedwell, bluebell and orchis, and commonplace objects.

_Fragment_

The cataract, whirling down the precipice, Elbows down rocks and, shouldering, thunders through.

Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease; h.e.l.l and its agonies seem hid below.

Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew; The trees and greenwood wear the deepest green.

Horrible mysteries in the gulph stare through, Roars of a million tongues, and none knows what they mean.

_From "A Rhapsody"_

Sweet solitude, what joy to be alone-- In wild, wood-shady dell to stay for hours.

Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stone To see glad b.u.t.terflies and smiling flowers.

Tis pleasant in these quiet lonely places, Where not the voice of man our pleasure mars, To see the little bees with coal black faces Gathering sweets from little flowers like stars.

The wind seems calling, though not understood.

A voice is speaking; hark, it louder calls.

It echoes in the far-outstretching wood.

First twas a hum, but now it loudly squalls; And then the pattering rain begins to fall, And it is hushed--the fern leaves scarcely shake, The tottergra.s.s it scarcely stirs at all.

And then the rolling thunder gets awake, And from black clouds the lightning flashes break.

The sunshine's gone, and now an April evening Commences with a dim and mackerel sky.

Gold light and woolpacks in the west are leaving, And leaden streaks their splendid place supply.

Sheep ointment seems to daub the dead-hued sky, And night shuts up the lightsomeness of day, All dark and absent as a corpse's eye.

Flower, tree, and bush, like all the shadows grey, In leaden hues of desolation fade away.

Tis May; and yet the March flower Dandelion Is still in bloom among the emerald gra.s.s, Shining like guineas with the sun's warm eye on-- We almost think they are gold as we pa.s.s, Or fallen stars in a green sea of gra.s.s.

They shine in fields, or waste grounds near the town.

They closed like painter's brush when even was.

At length they turn to nothing else but down, While the rude winds blow off each shadowy crown.

_Secret Love_

I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my love to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place; Where eer I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and bade my love good bye.

I met her in the greenest dells Where dewdrops pearl the wood blue bells The lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye, The bee kissed and went singing by, A sunbeam found a pa.s.sage there, A gold chain round her neck so fair; As secret as the wild bee's song She lay there all the summer long.

I hid my love in field and town Till een the breeze would knock me down, The bees seemed singing ballads oer, The fly's ba.s.s turned a lion's roar; And even silence found a tongue, To haunt me all the summer long; The riddle nature could not prove Was nothing else but secret love.

_Bantry Bay_

On the eighteenth of October we lay in Bantry Bay, All ready to set sail, with a fresh and steady gale: A fortnight and nine days we in the harbour lay, And no breeze ever reached us or strained a single sail.

Three ships of war had we, and the great guns loaded all; But our ships were dead and beaten that had never feared a foe.

The winds becalmed around us cared for no cannon ball; They locked us in the harbour and would not let us go.

On the nineteenth of October, by eleven of the clock, The sky turned black as midnight and a sudden storm came on-- Awful and sudden--and the cables felt the shock; Our anchors they all broke away and every sheet was gone.

The guns fired off amid the strife, but little hope had we; The billows broke above the ship and left us all below.