Time's Laughingstocks and Other verses Read Online

– »Leazings« (line I), bundle of gleaned corn.

To Carrey Clavel

You turn your back, you turn your back,

And never your face to me,

Alone you take your homeward track,

And scorn my company.

What will you do when Charley's seen

Dewbeating down this way?

– You'll turn your back as now, you mean?

Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay!

You'll see none's looking; put your lip

Up like a tulip, so;

And he will coll you, bend, and sip:

Yes, Carrey, yes; I know!

The Orphaned Old Maid

I wanted to marry, but father said, »No –

'Tis weakness in women to give themselves so;

If you care for your freedom you'll listen to me,

Make a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be.«

I spake on't again and again: father cried,

»Why – if you go husbanding, where shall I bide?

For never a home's for me elsewhere than here!«

And I yielded; for father had ever been dear.

But now father's gone, and I feel growing old,

And I'm lonely and poor in this house on the wold,

And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere,

And nobody flings me a thought or a care.

The Spring Call

Down Wessex way, when spring's a-shine,

The blackbird's ›pret-ty de-urr!‹

In Wessex accents marked as mine

Is heard afar and near.

He flutes it strong, as if in song

No R's of feebler tone

Than his appear in ›pretty dear‹,

Have blackbirds ever known.

Yet they pipe ›prattie deerh!‹ I glean,

Beneath a Scottish sky,

And ›pehty de-aw!‹ amid the treen

Of Middlesex or nigh.

While some folk say – perhaps in play –

Who know the Irish isle,

'Tis ›purrity dare!‹ in treeland there

When songsters would beguile.

Well: I'll say what the listening birds

Say, hearing ›pret-ty de-urr!‹ –

However strangers sound such words,

That's how we sound them here.

Yes, in this clime at pairing time,

As soon as eyes can see her

At dawn of day, the proper way

To call is ›pret-ty de-urr!‹

Julie-Jane

Sing; how 'a would sing!

How 'a would raise the tune

When we rode in the waggon from harvesting

By the light o' the moon!

Dance; how 'a would dance!

If a fiddlestring did but sound

She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance,

And go round and round.

Laugh; how 'a would laugh!

Her peony lips would part

As if none such a place for a lover to quaff

At the deeps of a heart.

Julie, O girl of joy,

Soon, soon that lover he came.

Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy,

But never his name. ...

– Tolling for her, as you guess;

And the baby too. ... 'Tis well.

You knew her in maidhood likewise? – Yes,

That's her burial bell.

»I suppose,« with a laugh, she said,

»I should blush that I'm not a wife;

But how can it matter, so soon to be dead,

What one does in life!«

When we sat making the mourning

By her death-bed side, said she,

»Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning

In honour of me!«

Bubbling and brightsome eyed!

But now – O never again.

She chose her bearers before she died

From her fancy-men.

NOTE. – It is, or was, a common custom in Wessex, and probably other country places, to prepare the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying person sometimes assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such occasions.

»Coats« (line 7), old name for petticoats.

News for Her Mother

I

One mile more is

Where your door is,

Mother mine! –

Harvest's coming,

Mills are strumming,

Apples fine,

And the cider made to-year will be as wine.

II

Yet, not viewing

What's a-doing

Here around

Is it thrills me,

And so fills me

That I bound

Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.

III

Tremble not now

At your lot now,

Silly soul!

Hosts have sped them

Quick to wed them,

Great and small,

Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.

IV

Yet I wonder,

Will it sunder

Her from me?

Will she guess that

I said »Yes,« – that

His I'd be,

Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!

V

Old brown gable,

Granary, stable,

Here you are!

O my mother,

Can another

Ever bar

Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?

The Fiddler

The fiddler knows what's brewing

To the lilt of his lyric wiles:

The fiddler knows what rueing

Will come of this night's smiles!

He sees couples join them for dancing,

And afterwards joining for life,

He sees them pay high for their prancing

By a welter of wedded strife.

He twangs: »Music hails from the devil,

Though vaunted to come from heaven,

For it makes people do at a revel

What multiplies sins by seven.

There's many a heart now mangled,

And waiting its time to go,

Whose tendrils were first entangled

By my sweet viol and bow!«

The Husband's View

»Can anything avail

Beldame, for my hid grief? –

Listen: I'll tell the tale,

It may bring faint relief! –

I came where I was not known,

In hope to flee my sin;

And walking forth alone

A young man said, ›Good e'en.‹

In gentle voice and true

He asked to marry me;

›You only – only you

Fulfil my dream!‹ said he.

We married o' Monday morn,

In the month of hay and flowers;

My cares were nigh forsworn,

And perfect love was ours.

But ere the days are long

Untimely fruit will show;

My Love keeps up his song,

Undreaming it is so.

And I awake in the night,

And think of months gone by,

And of that cause of flight

Hidden from my Love's eye.

Discovery borders near,

And then! ... But something stirred? –

My husband – he is here!

Heaven – has he overheard?« –

»Yes; I have heard, sweet Nan;

I have known it all the time.

I am not a particular man;

Misfortunes are no crime:

And what with our serious need

Of sons for soldiering,

That accident, indeed,

To maids, is a useful thing!«

Rose-Ann

Why didn't you say you was promised, Rose-Ann?

Why didn't you name it to me,

Ere ever you tempted me hither, Rose-Ann,

So often, so wearifully?

O why did you let me be near 'ee, Rose-Ann,

Talking things about wedlock so free,

And never by nod or by whisper, Rose-Ann,

Give a hint that it wasn't to be?

Down home I was raising a flock of stock ewes,

Cocks and hens, and wee chickens by scores,

And lavendered linen all ready to use,

A-dreaming that they would be yours.

Mother said: »She's a sport-making maiden, my son;«

And a pretty sharp quarrel had we;

O why do you prove by this wrong you have done

That I saw not what mother could see?

Never once did you say you was promised, Rose-Ann,

Never once did I dream it to be;

And it cuts to the heart to be treated, Rose-Ann,

As you in your scorning treat me!

The Homecoming

Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,

And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there.

»Now don't ye rub your eyes so red; we're home and have no cares;

Here's a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some pears;

I've got a little keg o' summat strong, too, under stairs:

– What, slight your husband's victuals? Other brides can tackle theirs!«

The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their chimney like a horn,

And round the house and past the house 'twas leafless and lorn.

»But my dear and tender poppet, then, how came ye to agree

In Ivel church this morning? Sure, there-right you married me!«

– »Hoo-hoo! –I don't know – I forgot how strange and far 'twould be,

An' I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!«

Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,

And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there.

»I didn't think such furniture as this was all you'd own,

And great black beams for ceiling, and a floor o' wretched stone,

And nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone,

And a monstrous crock in chimney. 'Twas to me quite unbeknown!«

Rattle rattle went the door; down flapped a cloud of smoke,

As shifting north the wicked wind assayed a smarter stroke.

»Now sit ye by the fire, poppet; put yourself at ease:

And keep your little thumb out of your mouth, dear, please!

And I'll sing to 'ee a pretty song of lovely flowers and bees,

And happy lovers taking walks within a grove o' trees.«

Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,

And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there.

»Now, don't ye gnaw your handkercher; 'twill hurt your little tongue,

And if you do feel spitish, 'tis because ye are over young;

But you'll be getting older, like us all, ere very long,

And you'll see me as I am – a man who never did 'ee wrong.«

Straight from Whit' sheet Hill to Benvill Lane the blusters pass,

Hitting hedges, milestones, handposts, trees, and tufts of grass.

»Well, had I only known, my dear, that this was how you'd be,

I'd have married her of riper years that was so fond of me.

But since I can't, I've half a mind to run away to sea,

And leave 'ee to go barefoot to your d–d daddee!«

Up one wall and down the other – past each window-pane –

Prance the gusts, and then away down Crimmercrock's long lane.

»I – I – don't know what to say to't, since your wife I've vowed to be;

And as 'tis done, I s'pose here I must bide – poor me!

Aye – as you are ki-ki-kind, I'll try to live along with 'ee,

Although I'd fain have stayed at home with dear daddee!«

Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,

And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there.

»That's right, my Heart! And though on haunted Toller Down we be,

And the wind swears things in chimley, we'll to supper merrily!

So don't ye tap your shoe so pettish-like; but smile at me,

And ye'll soon forget to sock and sigh for dear daddee!«

Pieces occasional and various

A Church Romance

(Mellstock: circa 1835)

She turned in the high pew, until her sight

Swept the west gallery, and caught its row

Of music-men with viol, book, and bow

Against the sinking sad tower-window light.

She turned again; and in her pride's despite

One strenuous viol's inspirer seemed to throw

A message from his string to her below,

Which said: »I claim thee as my own forthright!«

Thus their hearts' bond began, in due time signed.

And long years thence, when Age had scared Romance,

At some old attitude of his or glance

That gallery-scene would break upon her mind,

With him as minstrel, ardent, young, and trim,

Bowing »New Sabbath« or »Mount Ephraim«.

The Rash Bride

An Experience of the Mellstock Quire

I

We Christmas-carolled down the Vale, and up the Vale, and round the Vale,

We played and sang that night as we were yearly wont to do –

A carol in a minor key, a carol in the major D,

Then at each house: »Good wishes: many Christmas joys to you!«

II

Next, to the widow's John and I and all the rest drew on. And I

Discerned that John could hardly hold the tongue of him for joy.

The widow was a sweet young thing whom John was bent on marrying,

And quiring at her casement seemed romantic to the boy.

III

»She'll make reply, I trust,« said he, »to our salute? She must!« said he,

»And then I will accost her gently – much to her surprise! –

For knowing not I am with you here, when I speak up and call her dear

A tenderness will fill her voice, a bashfulness her eyes.«

IV

So, by her window-square we stood; ay, with our lanterns there we stood,

And he along with us, – not singing, waiting for a sign;

And when we'd quired her carols three a light was lit and out looked she,

A shawl about her bedgown, and her colour red as wine.

V

And sweetly then she bowed her thanks, and smiled, and spoke aloud her thanks;

When lo, behind her back there, in the room, a man appeared.

I knew him – one from Woolcomb way – Giles Swetman – honest as the day,

But eager, hasty; and I felt that some strange trouble neared.

VI

»How comes he there? ... Suppose,« said we, »she's wed of late! Who knows?« said we.

– »She married yester-morning – only mother yet has known

The secret o't!« shrilled one small boy. »But now I've told, let's wish 'em joy!«

A heavy fall aroused us: John had gone down like a stone.

VII

We rushed to him and caught him round, and lifted him, and brought him round,

When, hearing something wrong had happened, oped the window she:

»Has one of you fallen ill?« she asked, »by these night labours overtasked?«

None answered. That she'd done poor John a cruel turn felt we.

VIII

Till up spoke Michael: »Fie, young dame! You've broke your promise, sly young dame,

By forming this new tie, young dame, and jilting John so true,

Who trudged to-night to sing to 'ee because he thought he'd bring to 'ee

Good wishes as your coming spouse. May ye such trifling rue!«

IX

Her man had said no word at all; but being behind had heard it all,

And now cried: »Neighbours, on my soul I knew not 'twas like this!«

And then to her: »If I had known you'd had in tow not me alone,

No wife should you have been of mine. It is a dear bought bliss!«

X

She changed death-white, and heaved a cry: we'd never heard so grieved a cry

As came from her at this from him: heartbroken quite seemed she;

And suddenly, as we looked on, she turned, and rushed; and she was gone,

Whither, her husband, following after, knew not; nor knew we.

XI

We searched till dawn about the house; within the house, without the house,

We searched among the laurel boughs that grew beneath the wall,

And then among the crocks and things, and stores for winter junketings,

In linhay, loft, and dairy; but we found her not at all.

XII

Then John rushed in: »O friends,« he said, »hear this, this, this!« and bends his head:

»I've – searched round by the – well, and find the cover open wide!

I am fearful that – I can't say what. ... Bring lanterns, and some cords to knot.«

We did so, and we went and stood the deep dark hole beside.

XIII

And then they, ropes in hand, and I – ay, John, and all the band, and I

Let down a lantern to the depths – some hundred feet and more;

It glimmered like a fog-dimmed star; and there, beside its light, afar,

White drapery floated, and we knew the meaning that it bore.

XIV

The rest is naught. ... We buried her o' Sunday. Neighbours carried her;

And Swetman – he who'd married her – now miserablest of men,

Walked mourning first; and then walked John; just quivering, but composed anon;

And we the quire formed round the grave, as was the custom then.

XV

Our old bass player, as I recall – his white hair blown – but why recall! –

His viol upstrapped, bent figure – doomed to follow her full soon –

Stood bowing, pale and tremulous; and next to him the rest of us. ...

We sang the Ninetieth Psalm to her – set to Saint Stephen's tune.

The Dead Quire

I

Beside the Mead of Memories,

Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill,

The sad man sighed his phantasies:

He seems to sigh them still.

II

»'Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers

Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest,

But the Mellstock quire of former years

Had entered into rest.

III

Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,

And Reuben and Michael a pace behind,

And Bowman with his family

By the wall that the ivies bind.

IV

The singers had followed one by one,

Treble, and tenor, and thorough-bass;

And the worm that wasteth had begun

To mine their mouldering place.

V

For two-score years, ere Christ-day light,

Mellstock had throbbed to strains from these;

But now there echoed on the night

No Christmas harmonies.

VI

Three meadows off, at a dormered inn,

The youth had gathered in high carouse,

And, ranged on settles, some therein

Had drunk them to a drowse.

VII

Loud, lively, reckless, some had grown,

Each dandling on his jigging knee

Eliza, Dolly, Nance, or Joan –

Livers in levity.

VIII

The taper flames and hearthfire shine

Grew smoke-hazed to a lurid light,

And songs on subjects not divine

Were warbled forth that night.

IX

Yet many were sons and grandsons here

Of those who, on such eves gone by,

At that still hour had throated clear

Their anthems to the sky,

X

The clock belled midnight; and ere long«

One shouted, »Now 'tis Christmas morn;

Here's to our women old and young,

And to John Barleycorn!«

XI

They drink the toast and shout again:

The pewter-ware rings back the boom,

And for a breath-while follows then

A silence in the room.

XII

»When nigh without, as in old days,

The ancient quire of voice and string

Seemed singing words of prayer and praise

As they had used to sing:

XIII

While shepherds watch'd their flocks by night, –

Thus swells die long familiar sound

In many a quaint symphonic flight –

To, Glory shone around.

XIV

The sons defined their fathers' tones,

The widow his whom she had wed,

And others in the minor moans

The viols of the dead.

XV

Something supernal has the sound

As verse by verse the strain proceeds,

And stilly staring on the ground

Each roysterer holds and heeds.

XVI

Towards its chorded closing bar

Plaintively, thinly, waned the hymn,

Yet lingered, like the notes afar

Of banded seraphim.

XVII

With brows abashed, and reverent tread,

The hearkeners sought the tavern door:

But nothing, save wan moonlight, spread

The empty highway o'er.

XVIII

While on their hearing fixed and tense

The aerial music seemed to sink,

As it were gently moving thence

Along the river brink.

XIX

Then did the Quick pursue the Dead

By crystal Froom that crinkles there;

And still the viewless quire ahead

Voiced the old holy air.

XX

By Bank-walk wicket, brightly bleached,

It passed, and 'twixt the hedges twain,

Dogged by the living; till it reached

The bottom of Church Lane.

XXI

There, at the turning, it was heard

Drawing to where the churchyard lay:

But when they followed thitherward

It smalled, and died away.

XXII

Each headstone of the quire, each mound,

Confronted them beneath the moon;

But no more floated therearound

That ancient Birth-night tune.

XXIII

There Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,

There Reuben and Michael, a pace behind,

And Bowman with his family

By the wall that the ivies bind. ...

XXIV

As from a dream each sobered son

Awoke, and musing reached his door:

'Twas said that of them all, not one

Sat in a tavern more.«

XXV

– The sad man ceased; and ceased to heed

His listener, and crossed the leaze

From Moaning Hill towards the mead –

The Mead of Memories.

The Christening

Whose child is this they bring

Into the aisle? –

At so superb a thing

The congregation smile

And turn their heads awhile.

Its eyes are blue and bright,

Its cheeks like rose;

Its simple robes unite

Whitest of calicoes

With lawn, and satin bows.

A pride in the human race

At this paragon

Of mortals, lights each face

While the old rite goes on;

But ah, they are shocked anon.

What girl is she who peeps

From the gallery stair,

Smiles palely, redly weeps,

With feverish furtive air

As though not fitly there?

»I am the baby's mother;

This gem of the race

The decent fain would smother,

And for my deep disgrace

I am bidden to leave the place.«

»Where is the baby's father?« –

»In the woods afar.

He says there is none he'd rather

Meet under moon or star

Than me, of all that are.

To clasp me in lovelike weather,

Wish fixing when,

He says: To be together

At will, just now and then,

Makes him the blest of men;

But chained and doomed for life

To slovening

As vulgar man and wife,

He says, is another thing:

Yea: sweet Love's sepulchring!«

A Dream Question

»It shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not divine.« –

Micah, III 6

I asked the Lord: »Sire, is this true

Which hosts of theologians hold,

That when we creatures censure you

For shaping griefs and ails untold

(Deeming them punishments undue)

You rage, as Moses wrote of old?

When we exclaim: ›Beneficent

He is not, for he orders pain,

Or, if so, not omnipotent:

To a mere child the thing is plain!‹

Those who profess to represent

You, cry out: ›Impious and profane!‹«

He: »Save me from my friends, who deem

That I care what my creatures say!

Mouth as you list: sneer, rail, blaspheme,

O manikin, the livelong day,

Not one grief-groan or pleasure-gleam

Will you increase or take away.

Why things are thus, whoso derides,

May well remain my secret still. ...

A fourth dimension, say the guides,

To matter is conceivable.

Think some such mystery resides

Within the ethic of my will.«

By the Barrows

Not far from Mellstock – so tradition saith –

Where barrows, bulging as they bosoms were

Of Multimammia stretched supinely there,

Catch night and noon the tempest's wanton breath,

A battle, desperate doubtless unto death,

Was one time fought. The outlook, lone and bare,

The towering hawk and passing raven share,

And all the upland round is called ›The He'th‹.

Here once a woman, in our modern age,

Fought singlehandedly to shield a child –

One not her own – from a man's senseless rage.

And to my mind no patriots' bones there piled

So consecrate the silence as her deed

Of stoic and devoted self-unheed.

A Wife and Another

»War ends, and he's returning

Early; yea,

The evening next to-morrow's!« –

– This I say

To her, whom I suspiciously survey,

Holding my husband's letter

To her view. –

She glanced at it but lightly,

And I knew

That one from him that day had reached her too.

There was no time for scruple;

Secretly

I filched her missive, conned it,

Learnt that he

Would lodge with her ere he came home to me.

To reach the port before her,

And, unscanned,

There wait to intercept them

Soon I planned:

That, in her stead, I might before him stand.

So purposed, so effected;

At the inn

Assigned, I found her hidden: –

O that sin

Should bear what she bore when I entered in!

Her heavy lids grew laden

With despairs,

Her lips made soundless movements

Unawares,

While I peered at the chamber hired as theirs.

And as beside its doorway,

Deadly hued,

One inside, one withoutside

We two stood,

He came – my husband – as she knew he would.

No pleasurable triumph

Was that sight!

The ghastly disappointment

Broke them quite.

What love was theirs, to move them with such might!

»Madam, forgive me!« said she,

Sorrow bent,

»A child – I soon shall bear him. ...

Yes – I meant

To tell you – that he won me ere he went.«

Then, as it were, within me

Something snapped,

As if my soul had largened:

Conscience-capped,

I saw myself the snarer – them the trapped.

»My hate dies, and I promise,

Grace-beguiled,«

I said, »to care for you, be

Reconciled;

And cherish, and take interest in the child.«

Without more words I pressed him

Through the door

Within which she stood, powerless

To say more,

And closed it on them, and downstairward bore.

»He joins his wife – my sister,«

I, below,

Remarked in going – lightly –

Even as though

All had come right, and we had arranged it so..

As I, my road retracing,

Left them free,

The night alone embracing

Childless me,

I held I had not stirred God wrothfully.

The Roman Road

The Roman Road runs straight and bare

As the pale parting-line in hair

Across the heath. And thoughtful men

Contrast its days of Now and Then,

And delve, and measure, and compare;

Visioning on the vacant air

Helmed legionaries, who proudly rear

The Eagle, as they pace again

The Roman Road.

But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire

Haunts it for me. Uprises there

A mother's form upon my ken,

Guiding my infant steps, as when

We walked that ancient thoroughfare,

The Roman Road.

The Vampirine Fair

Gilbert had sailed to India's shore,

And I was all alone:

My lord came in at my open door

And said, »O fairest one!«

He leant upon the slant bureau,

And sighed, »I am sick for thee!«

»My Lord,« said I, »pray speak not so,

Since wedded wife I be.«

Leaning upon the slant bureau,

Bitter his next words came:

»So much I know; and likewise know

My love burns on the same!

But since you thrust my love away,

And since it knows no cure,

I must live out as best I may

The ache that I endure.«

When Michaelmas browned the nether Coomb,

And Wingreen Hill above,

And made the hollyhocks rags of bloom,

My lord grew ill of love.

My lord grew ill with love for me;

Gilbert was far from port;

And – so it was – that time did see

Me housed at Manor Court.

About the bowers of Manor Court

The primrose pushed its head

When, on a day at last, report

Arrived of him I had wed.

»Gilbert, my Lord, is homeward bound,

His sloop is drawing near,

What shall I do when I am found

Not in his house but here?«

»O I will heal the injuries

I've done to him and thee.

I'll give him means to live at ease

Afar from Shastonb'ry.«

When Gilbert came we both took thought:

»Since comfort and good cheer,«

Said he, »so readily are bought,

He's welcome to thee, Dear.«

So when my lord flung liberally

His gold in Gilbert's hands,

I coaxed and got my brothers three

Made stewards of his lands.

And then I coaxed him to install

My other kith and kin,

With aim to benefit them all

Before his love ran thin.

And next I craved to be possessed

Of plate and jewels rare.

He groaned: »You give me, Love, no rest,

Take all the law will spare!«

And so in course of years my wealth

Became a goodly hoard,

My steward brethren, too, by stealth

Had each a fortune stored.

Thereafter in the gloom he'd walk,

And by and by began

To say aloud in absent talk,

»I am a ruined man! –

I hardly could have thought,« he said,

»When first I looked on thee,

That one so soft, so rosy red,

Could thus have beggared me!«

Seeing his fair estates in pawn,

And him in such decline,

I knew that his domain had gone

To lift up me and mine.

Next month upon a Sunday morn

A gunshot sounded nigh:

By his own hand my lordly born

Had doomed himself to die.

»Live, my dear Lord, and much of thine

Shall be restored to thee!«

He smiled, and said 'twixt word and sign,

»Alas – that cannot be!«

And while I searched his cabinet

For letters, keys, or will,

'Twas touching that his gaze was set

With love upon me still.

And when I burnt each document

Before his dying eyes,

'Twas sweet that he did not resent

My fear of compromise.

The steeple-cock gleamed golden when

I watched his spirit go:

And I became repentant then

That I had wrecked him so.

Three weeks at least had come and gone,

With many a saddened word,

Before I wrote to Gilbert on

The stroke that so had stirred.

And having worn a mournful gown,

I joined, in decent while,

My husband at a dashing town

To live in dashing style.

Yet though I now enjoy my fling,

And dine and dance and drive,

I'd give my prettiest emerald ring

To see my lord alive.

And when the meet on hunting-days

Is near his churchyard home,

I leave my bantering beaux to place

A flower upon his tomb;

And sometimes say: »Perhaps too late

The saints in Heaven deplore

That tender time when, moved by Fate,

He darked my cottage door.«

The Reminder

While I watch the Christmas blaze

Paint the room with ruddy rays,

Something makes my vision glide

To the frosty scene outside.

There, to reach a rotting berry,

Toils a thrush, – constrained to very

Dregs of food by sharp distress,

Taking such with thankfulness.

Why, O starving bird, when I

One day's joy would justify,

And put misery out of view,

Do you make me notice you!

The Rambler

I do not see the hills around,

Nor mark the tints the copses wear;

I do not note the grassy ground

And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note

Of cuckoos hid on either hand,

The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat

When eve's brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree, and mead –

All eloquent of love divine –

Receives their constant careful heed:

Such keen appraisement is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear,

The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,

Are those far back ones missed when near,

And now perceived too late by me!

Night in the Old Home

When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast,

And Life's bare pathway looms like a desert track to me,

And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest,

My perished people who housed them here come back to me.

They come and seat them around in their mouldy places,

Now and then bending towards me a glance of wistfulness,

A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces,

And in the bearing of each a passive tristfulness.

»Do you uphold me, lingering and languishing here,

A pale late plant of your once strong stock?« I say to them;

»A thinker of crooked thoughts upon Life in the sere,

And on That which consigns men to night after showing the day to them?«

»– O let be the Wherefore! We fevered our years not thus:

Take of Life what it grants, without question!« they answer me seemingly.

»Enjoy, suffer, wait: spread the table here freely like us,

And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away beamingly!«

After the Last Breath

(J.H. 1813-1904)

There's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped;

None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire;

No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped

Does she require.

Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay;

Our morrow's anxious plans have missed their aim;

Whether we leave to-night or wait till day

Counts as the same.

The lettered vessels of medicaments

Seem asking wherefore we have set them here;

Each palliative its silly face presents

As useless gear.

And yet we feel that something savours well;

We note a numb relief withheld before;

Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell

Of Time no more.

We see by littles now the deft achievement

Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all,

In view of which our momentary bereavement

Outshapes but small.

In Childbed

In the middle of the night

Mother's spirit came and spoke to me,

Looking weariful and white –

As 'twere untimely news she broke to me.

»O my daughter, joyed are you

To own the weetless child you mother there;

›Men may search the wide world through,‹

You think, ›nor find so fair another there!‹

Dear, this midnight time unwombs

Thousands just as rare and beautiful;

Thousands whom High Heaven foredooms

To be as bright, as good, as dutiful.

Source of ecstatic hopes and fears

And innocent maternal vanity,

Your fond exploit but shapes for tears

New thoroughfares in sad humanity.

Yet as you dream, so dreamt I

When Life stretched forth its morning ray to me;

Other views for by and by!«. ...

Such strange things did mother say to me.

The Pine Planters

(Marty South's Reverie)

I

We work here together

In blast and breeze;

He fills the earth in,

I hold the trees.

He does not notice

That what I do

Keeps me from moving

And chills me through.

He has seen one fairer

I feel by his eye,

Which skims me as though

I were not by.

And since she passed here

He scarce has known

But that the woodland

Holds him alone.

I have worked here with him

Since morning shine,

He busy with his thoughts

And I with mine.

I have helped him so many,

So many days,

But never win any

Small word of praise!

Shall I not sigh to him

That I work on

Glad to be nigh to him

Though hope is gone?

Nay, though he never

Knew love like mine,

I'll bear it ever

And make no sign!

II

From the bundle at hand here

I take each tree,

And set it to stand, here

Always to be;

When, in a second,

As if from fear

Of Life unreckoned

Beginning here,

It starts a sighing

Through day and night,

Though while there lying

'Twas voiceless quite.

It will sigh in the morning,

Will sigh at noon,

At the winter's warning,

In wafts of June;

Grieving that never

Kind Fate decreed

It should for ever

Remain a seed,

And shun the welter

Of things without,

Unneeding shelter

From storm and drought.

Thus, all unknowing

For whom or what

We set it growing

In this bleak spot,

It still will grieve here

Throughout its time,

Unable to leave here,

Or change its clime;

Or tell the story

Of us to-day

When, halt and hoary,

We pass away.

The Dear

I plodded to Fairmile Hill-top, where

A maiden one fain would guard

From every hazard and every care

Advanced on the roadside sward.

I wondered how succeeding suns

Would shape her wayfarings,

And wished some Power might take such ones

Under Its warding wings.

The busy breeze came up the hill

And smartened her cheek to red,

And frizzled her hair to a haze. With a will

»Good-morning, my Dear!« I said.

She glanced from me to the far-off gray,

And, with proud severity,

»Good-morning to you – though I may say

I am not your Dear,« quoth she:

»For I am the Dear of one not here –

One far from his native land!« –

And she passed me by; and I did not try

To make her understand.

One We Knew

(M.H.