Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 7

_The Stranger_

When trouble haunts me, need I sigh?

No, rather smile away despair; For those have been more sad than I, With burthens more than I could bear; Aye, gone rejoicing under care Where I had sunk in black despair.

When pain disturbs my peace and rest, Am I a hopeless grief to keep, When some have slept on torture's breast And smiled as in the sweetest sleep, Aye, peace on thorns, in faith forgiven, And pillowed on the hope of heaven?

Though low and poor and broken down, Am I to think myself distrest?

No, rather laugh where others frown And think my being truly blest; For others I can daily see More worthy riches worse than me.

Aye, once a stranger blest the earth Who never caused a heart to mourn, Whose very voice gave sorrow mirth-- And how did earth his worth return?

It spurned him from its lowliest lot, The meanest station owned him not;

An outcast thrown in sorrow's way, A fugitive that knew no sin, Yet in lone places forced to stray-- Men would not take the stranger in.

Yet peace, though much himself he mourned, Was all to others he returned.

His presence was a peace to all, He bade the sorrowful rejoice.

Pain turned to pleasure at his call, Health lived and issued from his voice.

He healed the sick and sent abroad The dumb rejoicing in the Lord.

The blind met daylight in his eye, The joys of everlasting day; The sick found health in his reply; The cripple threw his crutch away.

Yet he with troubles did remain And suffered poverty and pain.

Yet none could say of wrong he did, And scorn was ever standing bye; Accusers by their conscience chid, When proof was sought, made no reply.

Yet without sin he suffered more Than ever sinners did before.

_Song's Eternity_

What is song's eternity?

Come and see.

Can it noise and bustle be?

Come and see.

Praises sung or praises said Can it be?

Wait awhile and these are dead-- Sigh, sigh; Be they high or lowly bred They die.

What is song's eternity?

Come and see.

Melodies of earth and sky, Here they be.

Song once sung to Adam's ears Can it be?

Ballads of six thousand years Thrive, thrive; Songs awaken with the spheres Alive.

Mighty songs that miss decay, What are they?

Crowds and cities pa.s.s away Like a day.

Books are out and books are read; What are they?

Years will lay them with the dead-- Sigh, sigh; Trifles unto nothing wed, They die.

Dreamers, mark the honey bee; Mark the tree Where the blue cap "_tootle tee_"

Sings a glee Sung to Adam and to Eve Here they be.

When floods covered every bough, Noah's ark Heard that ballad singing now; Hark, hark,

"_Tootle tootle tootle tee_"-- Can it be Pride and fame must shadows be?

Come and see-- Every season own her own; Bird and bee Sing creation's music on; Nature's glee Is in every mood and tone Eternity.

_The Old Cottagers_

The little cottage stood alone, the pride Of solitude surrounded every side.

Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall; A garden with its hawthorn hedge was all The s.p.a.ce between.--Green light did pa.s.s Through one small window, where a looking-gla.s.s Placed in the parlour, richly there revealed A s.p.a.cious landscape and a blooming field.

The pasture cows that herded on the moor Printed their footsteps to the very door, Where little summer flowers with seasons blow And scarcely gave the eldern leave to grow.

The cuckoo that one listens far away Sung in the orchard trees for half the day; And where the robin lives, the village guest, In the old weedy hedge the leafy nest Of the coy nightingale was yearly found, Safe from all eyes as in the loneliest ground; And little chats that in bean stalks will lie A nest with cobwebs there will build, and fly Upon the kidney bean that twines and towers Up little poles in wreaths of scarlet flowers.

There a lone couple lived, secluded there From all the world considers joy or care, Lived to themselves, a long lone journey trod, And through their Bible talked aloud to G.o.d; While one small close and cow their wants maintained, But little needing, and but little gained.

Their neighbour's name was peace, with her they went, With tottering age, and dignified content, Through a rich length of years and quiet days, And filled the neighbouring village with their praise.

_Young Lambs_

The spring is coming by a many signs; The trays are up, the hedges broken down, That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines Like some old antique fragment weathered brown.

And where suns peep, in every sheltered place, The little early b.u.t.tercups unfold A glittering star or two--till many trace The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold.

And then a little lamb bolts up behind The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe, And then another, sheltered from the wind, Lies all his length as dead--and lets me go Close bye and never stirs but baking lies, With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.

_Early Nightingale_

When first we hear the shy-come nightingales, They seem to mutter oer their songs in fear, And, climb we eer so soft the spinney rails, All stops as if no bird was anywhere.

The kindled bushes with the young leaves thin Let curious eyes to search a long way in, Until impatience cannot see or hear The hidden music; gets but little way Upon the path--when up the songs begin, Full loud a moment and then low again.

But when a day or two confirms her stay Boldly she sings and loud for half the day; And soon the village brings the woodman's tale Of having heard the newcome nightingale.

_Winter Walk_

The holly bush, a sober lump of green, Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey, And smiles at winter be it eer so keen With all the leafy luxury of May.

And O it is delicious, when the day In winter's loaded garment keenly blows And turns her back on sudden falling snows, To go where gravel pathways creep between Arches of evergreen that scarce let through A single feather of the driving storm; And in the bitterest day that ever blew The walk will find some places still and warm Where dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarm To little birds that flirt and start away.

_The Soldier_

Home furthest off grows dearer from the way; And when the army in the Indias lay Friends' letters coming from his native place Were like old neighbours with their country face.

And every opportunity that came Opened the sheet to gaze upon the name Of that loved village where he left his sheep For more contented peaceful folk to keep; And friendly faces absent many a year Would from such letters in his mind appear.

And when his pockets, chafing through the case, Wore it quite out ere others took the place, Right loath to be of company bereft He kept the fragments while a bit was left.

_Ploughman Singing_

Here morning in the ploughman's songs is met Ere yet one footstep shows in all the sky, And twilight in the east, a doubt as yet, Shows not her sleeve of grey to know her bye.

Woke early, I arose and thought that first In winter time of all the world was I.

The old owls might have hallooed if they durst, But joy just then was up and whistled bye A merry tune which I had known full long, But could not to my memory wake it back, Until the ploughman changed it to the song.