Poems, &c. (1790) Part 3

"Sad thro' the hall the pale lamp gleams Upon my father's arms: My soul is fill'd with gloomy dreams, I fear unknown alarms.

"Oh! I have known this lonely place With ev'ry blessing stor'd; And many a friend with cheerful face Sit smiling at my board,

"Whilst round the fire, in early bloom, My harmless children play'd, Who now within the narrow tomb Are with their mother laid.

"And now low bends my wretched head, And those I lov'd are gone: My friends, my family, all are fled, And I am left alone.

"Oft' as the cheerless fire declines, In it I sadly trace, As 'lone I sit, the half form'd lines Of many a much lov'd face.

"But chief, O Marg'ret! to my mind Thy lovely features rise: I strive to think thee less unkind, And wipe my streaming eyes.

"For only thee I had to vaunt, Thou wert thy mother's pride: She left thee like a shooting plant To screen my widow'd side.

"But thou hast left me weak, forlorn, And chill'd with age's frost, To count my weary days, and mourn The comforts I have lost.

"Unkindly fair! why did'st thou go?

O, had I known the truth!

Tho' Edward's father was my foe, I would have bless'd the youth.

"O could I see that face again, Whose smile calm'd ev'ry strife!

And hear that voice, which sooth'd my pain, And made me wish for life!

"Thy harp hangs silent by the wall: My nights are sad and long: And thou art in a distant hall, Where strangers raise the song.

"Ha! some delusion of the mind My senses doth confound!

It was the harp, and not the wind, That did so sweetly sound."

Old Arno rose, all wan as death, With broken steps of care; And oft' he check'd his quick-heav'd breath, And turn'd his eager ear.

When like a full, but distant choir The swelling sound return'd; And with the soft and trembling wire, The sighing echoes mourn'd.

Then softly whisper'd o'er the song Which Marg'ret lov'd to play, Like some sweet dirge, and sad, and long, It faintly died away.

His dim-worn eyes to heav'n he cast, Where all his griefs were known; And smote upon his troubled breast, And heav'd a heavy groan.

"I know it is my daughter's hand, But 'tis no hand of clay: And here a lonely wretch I stand, All childless, bent, and grey.

"And art thou low, my lovely child?

And hast thou met thy doom?

And has thy flatt'ring morning smil'd, To lead but to the tomb?

"O let me see thee ere we part, For souls like thine are blest; O let me fold thee to my heart If aught of form thou hast.

"This pa.s.sing mist enrobes thy charms: Alas, to nought 'tis shrunk!

And hollow strike my empty arms Against my aged trunk.

"Thou'rt fled like the low ev'ning breath That sighs upon the hill: O stay! tho' in thy weeds of death, Thou art my daughter still."

Loud wak'd the sound, then fainter grew, And long and sadly mourn'd; And softly sigh'd a long adieu, And never more return'd.

Old Arno stretch'd him on the ground, Thick as the gloom of night, Death's misty shadows gather'd round, And swam before his sight.

He heav'd a deep and deadly groan, Which rent his lab'ring breast; And long before the morning shone, His spirit was at rest.

A REVERIE.

Beside a spreading elm, from whose high boughs Like knotted tufts the crow's light dwelling shows, Where screen'd from northern blasts, and winter proof, Snug stands the parson's barn with thatched roof; At chaff-strew'd door, where, in the morning ray, The gilded mots in mazy circles play, And sleepy Comrade in the sun is laid, More grateful to the cur than neighb'ring shade; In snowy s.h.i.+rt unbrac'd, brown Robin stood, And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood: His full round cheek where deeper flushes glow, The dewy drops which glisten on his brow; His dark cropt pate that erst at church or fair, So smooth and silky, shew'd his morning's care, Which all uncouth in matted locks combin'd, Now, ends erect, defies the ruffling wind; His neck-band loose, and hosen rumpled low, A careful lad, nor slack at labour shew.

Nor sc.r.a.ping chickens chirping 'mongst the straw, Nor croaking rook o'er-head, nor chatt'ring daw; Loud-breathing cow amongst the rampy weeds, Nor grunting sow that in the furrow feeds; Nor sudden breeze that shakes the quaking leaves, And lightly rustles thro' the scatter'd sheaves; Nor floating straw that skims athwart his nose, The deeply musing youth may discompose.

For Nelly fair, and blythest village maid, Whose tuneful voice beneath the hedge-row shade, At early milking, o'er the meadows born, E'er cheer'd the ploughman's toil at rising morn: The neatest maid that e'er, in linen gown, Bore cream and b.u.t.ter to the market town: The tightest la.s.s, that with untutor'd air E'er footed ale-house floor at wake or fair, Since Easter last had Robin's heart possest, And many a time disturb'd his nightly rest.

Full oft' returning from the loosen'd plough, He slack'd his pace, and knit his thoughtful brow; And oft' ere half his thresher's talk was o'er, Would muse, with arms across, at cooling door: His mind thus bent, with downcast eyes he stood, And leant upon his flail in thoughtful mood.

His soul o'er many a soft rememb'rance ran, And, mutt'ring to himself, the youth began.

"Ah! happy is the man whose early lot Hath made him master of a furnish'd cot; Who trains the vine that round his window grows, And after setting sun his garden hoes; Whose wattled pales his own enclosure s.h.i.+eld, Who toils not daily in another's field.

Where'er he goes, to church or market town, With more respect he and his dog are known: A brisker face he wears at wake or fair, Nor views with longing eyes the pedlar's ware, But buys at will or ribands, gloves, or beads, And willing maidens to the ale-house leads: And, Oh! secure from toils which c.u.mber life, He makes the maid he loves an easy wife.

Ah, Nelly! can'st thou with contented mind, Become the help-mate of a lab'ring hind, And share his lot, whate'er the chances be, Who hath no dow'r, but love, to fix on thee?

Yes, gayest maid may meekest matron prove, And things of little note may 'token love.

When from the church thou cam'st at eventide And I and red-hair'd Susan by thy side, I pull'd the blossoms from the bending tree, And some to Susan gave, and some to thee; Thine were the best, and well thy smiling eye The diff'rence mark'd, and guess'd the reason why.

When on a holy-day we rambling stray'd, And pa.s.s'd old Hodge's cottage in the glade; Neat was the garden dress'd, sweet hum'd the bee, I wish'd both cot and Nelly made for me; And well methought thy very eyes reveal'd The self-same wish within thy breast conceal'd.

When artful, once, I sought my love to tell, And spoke to thee of one who lov'd thee well, You saw the cheat, and jeering homeward hied, Yet secret pleasure in thy looks I spied.

Ay, gayest maid may meekest matron prove, And smaller signs than these have 'token'd love."

Now, at a distance, on the neighb'ring plain, With creaking wheels slow comes the heavy wain: High on its tow'ring load a maid appears, And Nelly's voice sounds shrill in Robin's ears.

Quick from his hand he throws the c.u.mb'rous flail, And leaps with lightsome limbs th' enclosing pale.

O'er field and fence he scours, and furrow wide, With waken'd Comrade barking by his side; Whilst tracks of trodden grain, and sidelong hay, And broken hedge-flow'rs sweet, mark his impetuous way.

A DISAPPOINTMENT.

On village green, whose smooth and well worn sod, Cross-path'd with every gossip's foot is trod; By cottage door where playful children run, And cats and curs sit basking in the sun: Where o'er the earthen seat the thorn is bent, Cross-arm'd, and back to wall, poor William leant.

His bonnet broad drawn o'er his gather'd brow, His hanging lip and lengthen'd visage shew A mind but ill at ease. With motions strange, His listless limbs their wayward postures change; Whilst many a crooked line and curious maze, With clouted shoon, he on the sand pourtrays.

The half-chew'd straw fell slowly from his mouth, And to himself low mutt'ring spoke the youth.

"How simple is the lad! and reft of skill, Who thinks with love to fix a woman's will: Who ev'ry Sunday morn, to please her sight, Knots up his neck-cloth gay, and hosen white: Who for her pleasure keeps his pockets bare, And half his wages spends on pedlar's ware; When every n.i.g.g.ard clown, or dotard old, Who hides in secret nooks his oft told gold, Whose field or orchard tempts with all her pride, At little cost may win her for his bride; Whilst all the meed her silly lover gains Is but the neighbours' jeering for his pains.

On Sunday last when Susan's bands were read, And I astonish'd sat with hanging head, Cold grew my shrinking limbs, and loose my knee, Whilst every neighbour's eye was fix'd on me.

Ah, Sue! when last we work'd at Hodge's hay, And still at me you jeer'd in wanton play; When last at fair, well pleas'd by show-man's stand, You took the new-bought fairing from my hand; When at old Hobb's you sung that song so gay, Sweet William still the burthen of the lay, I little thought, alas! the lots were cast, That thou shou'd'st be another's bride at last: And had, when last we trip'd it on the green And laugh'd at stiff-back'd Rob, small thought I ween, Ere yet another scanty month was flown, To see thee wedded to the hateful clown.

Ay, lucky swain, more gold thy pockets line; But did these shapely limbs resemble thine, I'd stay at home, and tend the household geer, Nor on the green with other lads appear.

Ay, lucky swain, no store thy cottage lacks, And round thy barn thick stands the shelter'd stacks; But did such features hard my visage grace, I'd never budge the bonnet from my face.

Yet let it be: it shall not break my ease: He best deserves who doth the maiden please.

Such silly cause no more shall give me pain, Nor ever maiden cross my rest again.

Such grizzly suitors with their taste agree, And the black fiend may take them all for me!"

Now thro' the village rise confused sounds, Hoa.r.s.e lads, and children shrill, and yelping hounds.

Straight ev'ry matron at the door is seen, And pausing hedgers on their mattocks lean.

At every narrow lane, and alley mouth, Loud laughing la.s.ses stand, and joking youth.

A near approaching band in colours gay, With minstrels blythe before to cheer the way, From clouds of curling dust which onward fly, In rural splendour break upon the eye.

As in their way they hold so gayly on, Caps, beads, and b.u.t.tons glancing in the sun, Each village wag, with eye of roguish cast, Some maiden jogs, and vents the ready jest; Whilst village toasts the pa.s.sing belles deride, And sober matrons marvel at their pride.