Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 8

O happiness, how simple is thy track.

--Tinged like the willow shoots, the east's young brow Glows red and finds thee singing at the plough.

_Spring's Messengers_

Where slanting banks are always with the sun The daisy is in blossom even now; And where warm patches by the hedges run The cottager when coming home from plough Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set.

Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met Setting up little tents about the fields In sheltered spots.--Primroses when they get Behind the wood's old roots, where ivy shields Their crimpled, curdled leaves, will shine and hide.

Cart ruts and horses' footings scarcely yield A slur for boys, just crizzled and that's all.

Frost shoots his needles by the small d.y.k.e side, And snow in scarce a feather's seen to fall.

_Letter in Verse_

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain For the mere joy of riding back again, When summer from the meadow carts the hay And school hours leave them half a day to play; So I with leisure on three sides a sheet Of foolscap dance with poesy's measured feet, Just to ride post upon the wings of time And kill a care, to friendship turned in rhyme.

The muse's gallop hurries me in sport With much to read and little to divert, And I, amused, with less of wit than will, Run till I tire.--And so to cheat her still.

Like children running races who shall be First in to touch the orchard wall or tree, The last half way behind, by distance vext, Turns short, determined to be first the next; So now the muse has run me hard and long-- I'll leave at once her races and her song; And, turning round, laugh at the letter's close And beat her out by ending it in prose.

_Snow Storm_

What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps Incessant batter at the window pane, Making our comfort feel as sweet again; And in the morning, when the tempest drops, At every cottage door mountainous heaps Of snow lie drifted, that all entrance stops Untill the beesom and the shovel gain The path, and leave a wall on either side.

The shepherd rambling valleys white and wide With new sensations his old memory fills, When hedges left at night, no more descried, Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills, And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.

The boy that goes to fodder with surprise Walks oer the gate he opened yesternight.

The hedges all have vanished from his eyes; Een some tree tops the sheep could reach to bite.

The novel scene emboldens new delight, And, though with cautious steps his sports begin, He bolder shuffles the huge hills of snow, Till down he drops and plunges to the chin, And struggles much and oft escape to win-- Then turns and laughs but dare not further go; For deep the gra.s.s and bushes lie below, Where little birds that soon at eve went in With heads tucked in their wings now pine for day And little feel boys oer their heads can stray.

_Firwood_

The fir trees taper into twigs and wear The rich blue green of summer all the year, Softening the roughest tempest almost calm And offering shelter ever still and warm To the small path that towels underneath, Where loudest winds--almost as summer's breath-- Scarce fan the weed that lingers green below When others out of doors are lost in frost and snow.

And sweet the music trembles on the ear As the wind suthers through each tiny spear, Makeshifts for leaves; and yet, so rich they show, Winter is almost summer where they grow.

_Gra.s.shoppers_

Gra.s.shoppers go in many a thumming spring And now to stalks of ta.s.seled sow-gra.s.s cling, That shakes and swees awhile, but still keeps straight; While arching oxeye doubles with his weight.

Next on the cat-tail-gra.s.s with farther bound He springs, that bends until they touch the ground.

_Field Path_

The beams in blossom with their spots of jet Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met; The level meadow gra.s.s was in the swath; The hedge briar rose hung right across the path, White over with its flowers--the gra.s.s that lay Bleaching beneath the twittering heat to hay Smelt so deliciously, the puzzled bee Went wondering where the honey sweets could be; And pa.s.ser-bye along the level rows Stoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.

_Country Letter_

Dear brother robin this comes from us all With our kind love and could Gip write and all Though but a dog he'd have his love to spare For still he knows and by your corner chair The moment he comes in he lyes him down and seems to fancy you are in the town.

This leaves us well in health thank G.o.d for that For old acquaintance Sue has kept your hat Which mother brushes ere she lays it bye and every sunday goes upstairs to cry Jane still is yours till you come back agen and neer so much as dances with the men and ned the woodman every week comes in and asks about you kindly as our kin and he with this and goody Thompson sends Remembrances with those of all our friends Father with us sends love untill he hears and mother she has nothing but her tears Yet wishes you like us in health the same and longs to see a letter with your name So loving brother don't forget to write Old Gip lies on the hearth stone every night Mother can't bear to turn him out of doors and never noises now of dirty floors Father will laugh but lets her have her way and Gip for kindness get a double pay So Robin write and let us quickly see You don't forget old friends no more than we Nor let my mother have so much to blame To go three journeys ere your letter came.

_From "January"_

Supper removed, the mother sits, And tells her tales by starts and fits.

Not willing to lose time or toil, She knits or sews, and talks the while Something, that may be warnings found To the young listeners gaping round-- Of boys who in her early day Strolled to the meadow-lake to play, Where willows, oer the bank inclined Sheltered the water from the wind, And left it scarcely crizzled oer-- When one sank in, to rise no more!

And how, upon a market-night, When not a star bestowed its light, A farmer's shepherd, oer his gla.s.s, Forgot that he had woods to pa.s.s: And having sold his master's sheep, Was overta'en by darkness deep.

How, coming with his startled horse, To where two roads a hollow cross; Where, lone guide when a stranger strays, A white post points four different ways, Beside the woodride's lonely gate A murdering robber lay in wait.

The frightened horse, with broken rein, Stood at the stable-door again; But none came home to fill his rack, Or take the saddle from his back; The saddle--it was all he bore-- The man was seen alive no more!-- In her young days, beside the wood, The gibbet in its terror stood: Though now decayed, tis not forgot, But dreaded as a haunted spot.--

She from her memory oft repeats Witches' dread powers and fairy feats: How one has oft been known to prance In cowcribs, like a coach, to France, And ride on sheep-trays from the fold A race-horse speed to Burton-hold; To join the midnight mystery's rout, Where witches meet the yews about: And how, when met with unawares, They turn at once to cats or hares, And race along with h.e.l.lish flight, Now here, now there, now out of sight!-- And how the other tiny things Will leave their moonlight meadow-rings, And, unperceived, through key-holes creep, When all around have sunk to sleep, To feast on what the cotter leaves,-- Mice are not reckoned greater thieves.

They take away, as well as eat, And still the housewife's eye they cheat, In spite of all the folks that swarm In cottage small and larger farm; They through each key-hole pop and pop, Like wasps into a grocer's shop, With all the things that they can win From chance to put their plunder in;-- As sh.e.l.ls of walnuts, split in two By crows, who with the kernels flew; Or acorn-cups, by stock-doves plucked, Or egg-sh.e.l.ls by a cuckoo sucked; With broad leaves of the sycamore They clothe their stolen dainties oer: And when in cellar they regale, Bring hazel-nuts to hold their ale; With bung-holes bored by squirrels well, To get the kernel from the sh.e.l.l; Or maggots a way out to win, When all is gone that grew within; And be the key-holes eer so high, Rush poles a ladder's help supply.

Where soft the climbers fearless tread, On spindles made of spiders' thread.

And foul, or fair, or dark the night, Their wild-fire lamps are burning bright: For which full many a daring crime Is acted in the summer-time;-- When glow-worm found in lanes remote Is murdered for its shining coat, And put in flowers, that nature weaves With hollow shapes and silken leaves, Such as the Canterbury bell, Serving for lamp or lantern well; Or, following with unwearied watch The flight of one they cannot match, As silence sliveth upon sleep, Or thieves by dozing watch-dogs creep, They steal from Jack-a-Lantern's tails A light, whose guidance never fails To aid them in the darkest night And guide their plundering steps aright.

Rattling away in printless tracks, Some, housed on beetles' glossy backs, Go whisking on--and others hie As fast as loaded moths can fly: Some urge, the morning c.o.c.k to shun, The hardest gallop mice can run, In chariots, lolling at their ease, Made of whateer their fancies please;-- Things that in childhood's memory dwell-- Scooped crow-pot-stone, or c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l, With wheels at hand of mallow seeds, Where childish sport was stringing beads; And thus equipped, they softly pa.s.s Like shadows on the summer-gra.s.s, And glide away in troops together Just as the Spring-wind drives a feather.

As light as happy dreams they creep, Nor break the feeblest link of sleep: A midge, if in their road a-bed, Feels not the wheels run oer his head, But sleeps till sunrise calls him up, Unconscious of the pa.s.sing troop,--

Thus dame the winter-night regales With wonder's never-ceasing tales; While in a corner, ill at ease, Or crushing tween their father's knees, The children--silent all the while-- And een repressed the laugh or smile-- Quake with the ague chills of fear, And tremble though they love to hear; Starting, while they the tales recall, At their own shadows on the wall: Till the old clock, that strikes unseen Behind the picture-pasted screen Where Eve and Adam still agree To rob Life's fatal apple-tree, Counts over bed-time's hour of rest, And bids each be sleep's fearful guest.

She then her half-told tales will leave To finish on to-morrow's eve;-- The children steal away to bed, And up the ladder softly tread; Scarce daring--from their fearful joys-- To look behind or make a noise; Nor speak a word! but still as sleep They secret to their pillows creep, And whisper oer, in terror's way, The prayers they dare no louder say; Then hide their heads beneath the clothes, And try in vain to seek repose: While yet, to fancy's sleepless eye, Witches on sheep-trays gallop by, And fairies, like a rising spark, Swarm twittering round them in the dark; Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares, And drops upon them unawares.

_November_

The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon; And, if the sun looks through, tis with a face Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon, When done the journey of her nightly race, Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place.

For days the shepherds in the fields may be, Nor mark a patch of sky--blindfold they trace, The plains, that seem without a bush or tree, Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose, Crouching and sleeping neath its gra.s.sy lair, And scarcely startles, though the shepherd goes Close by its home, and dogs are barking there; The wild colt only turns around to stare At pa.s.ser by, then knaps his hide again; And moody crows beside the road forbear To fly, though pelted by the pa.s.sing swain; Thus day seems turned to night, and tries to wake in vain.

The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon, And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light; The hoa.r.s.e jay screams to see her out so soon, And small birds chirp and startle with affright; Much doth it scare the superst.i.tious wight, Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay; While cow-boys think the day a dream of night, And oft grow fearful on their lonely way, Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.

Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings Its murky prison round--then winds wake loud; With sudden stir the startled forest sings Winter's returning song-cloud races cloud.

And the horizon throws away its shroud, Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye; Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd, And oer the sameness of the purple sky Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.

At length it comes among the forest oaks, With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high; The scared, hoa.r.s.e raven on its cradle croaks, And stockdove-flocks in hurried terrors fly, While the blue hawk hangs oer them in the sky.-- The hedger hastens from the storm begun, To seek a shelter that may keep him dry; And foresters low bent, the wind to shun, Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher's muttering gun.

The ploughman hears its humming rage begin, And hies for shelter from his naked toil; b.u.t.toning his doublet closer to his chin, He bends and scampers oer the elting soil, While clouds above him in wild fury boil, And winds drive heavily the beating rain; He turns his back to catch his breath awhile, Then ekes his speed and faces it again, To seek the shepherd's hut beside the rushy plain.

The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheat The melancholy crow--in hurry weaves, Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat, Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves, Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves.

There he doth dithering sit, and entertain His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves; Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en, And wishing in his heart twas summer-time again.

Thus wears the month along, in checkered moods, Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms; One hour dies silent oer the sleepy woods, The next wakes loud with unexpected storms; A dreary nakedness the field deforms-- Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight, Lives in the village still about the farms, Where toil's rude uproar hums from morn till night Noises, in which the ears of industry delight.

At length the stir of rural labour's still, And industry her care awhile foregoes; When winter comes in earnest to fulfil His yearly task, at bleak November's close, And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows; When frost locks up the stream in chill delay And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes, For little birds--then toil hath time for play, And nought but threshers' flails awake the dreary day.

_The Fens_

Wandering by the river's edge, I love to rustle through the sedge And through the woods of reed to tear Almost as high as bushes are.

Yet, turning quick with shudder chill, As danger ever does from ill, Fear's moment ague quakes the blood, While plop the snake coils in the flood And, hissing with a forked tongue, Across the river winds along.

In coat of orange, green, and blue Now on a willow branch I view, Grey waving to the sunny gleam, Kingfishers watch the ripple stream For little fish that nimble bye And in the gravel shallows lie.