The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 74

THE TABLES TURNED An Evening Scene On The Same Subject

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening l.u.s.ter mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!

He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

SIMPLE NATURE

Be it not mine to steal the cultured flower From any garden of the rich and great, Nor seek with care, through many a weary hour, Some novel form of wonder to create.

Enough for me the leafy woods to rove, And gather simple cups of morning dew, Or, in the fields and meadows that I love, Find beauty in their bells of every hue.

Thus round my cottage floats a fragrant air, And though the rustic plot be humbly laid, Yet, like the lilies gladly growing there, I have not toiled, but take what G.o.d has made.

My Lord Ambition pa.s.sed, and smiled in scorn; I plucked a rose, and, lo! it had no thorn.

George John Romanes [1848-1894]

"I FEAR NO POWER A WOMAN WIELDS"

I fear no power a woman wields While I can have the woods and fields, With comrades.h.i.+p alone of gun, Gray marsh-wastes and the burning sun.

For aye the heart's most poignant pain Will wear away 'neath hail and rain, And rush of winds through branches bare With something still to do and dare,--

The lonely watch beside the sh.o.r.e, The wild-fowl's cry, the sweep of oar, The paths of virgin sky to scan Untrod, and so uncursed by man.

Gramercy, for thy haunting face, Thy charm of voice and lissome grace, I fear no power a woman wields While I can have the woods and fields.

Ernest McGaffey [1861-

A RUNNABLE STAG

When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom And apples began to be golden-skinned, We harbored a stag in the Priory coomb, And we feathered his trail up-wind, up-wind, We feathered his trail up-wind-- A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag, a kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, A stag, a runnable stag.

Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap, yap, And "Forwards" we heard the harborer shout; But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap In the beechen underwood, driven out, From the underwood antlered out By warrant and might of the stag, the stag, The runnable stag, whose lordly mind Was bent on sleep, though beamed and tined He stood, a runnable stag.

So we tufted the covert till afternoon With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell-of-the-North; And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune Before we tufted the right stag forth, Before we tufted him forth, The stag of warrant, the wily stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The royal and runnable stag.

It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn.

"Tally ho! tally ho!" and the hunt was up, The tufters whipped and the pack laid on, The resolute pack laid on, And the stag of warrant away at last, The runnable stag, the same, the same, His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame, A stag, a runnable stag.

"Let your gelding be: if you check or chide He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt; For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, On hunters accustomed to bear the brunt, Accustomed to bear the brunt, Are after the runnable stag, the stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The right, the runnable stag."

By perilous paths in coomb and dell, The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed, The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well, And a runnable stag goes right ahead, The quarry went right ahead-- Ahead, ahead, and fast and far; His antlered crest, his cloven hoof, Brow, bay and tray and three aloof, The stag, the runnable stag.

For a matter of twenty miles and more, By the densest hedge and the highest wall, Through herds of bullocks he baffled the lore Of harborer, huntsman, hounds and all, Of harborer, hounds and all-- The stag of warrant, the wily stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, He ran, and he never was caught alive, This stag, this runnable stag.

When he turned at bay in the leafy gloom, In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep, He heard in the distance the rollers boom, And he saw in a vision of peaceful sleep, In a wonderful vision of sleep, A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag in a jewelled bed, Under the sheltering ocean dead, A stag, a runnable stag.

So a fateful hope lit up his eye, And he opened his nostrils wide again, And he tossed his branching antlers high As he headed the hunt down the Charloch glen, As he raced down the echoing glen-- For five miles more, the stag, the stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, Not to be caught now, dead or alive, The stag, the runnable stag.

Three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, Three hundred horses as gallant and free, Beheld him escape on the evening tide, Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea, Till he sank in the depths of the sea-- The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag That slept at last in a jewelled bed Under the sheltering ocean spread, The stag, the runnable stag.

John Davidson [1857-1909]

HUNTING-SONG From "King Arthur"

Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle: Tarantara!

With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill!

Before the sun goes down, goes down, We shall slay the buck of ten; (Bugle: Tarantara!

And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison, When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; (Bugle: Tarantara!

He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air.

But he that loves the hills, the hills, Let him come out to-day! (Bugle: Tarantara!

For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, And the hunt's up, and away!

Richard Hovey [1864-1900]