THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES cy^ RURAL POEMS P O E M S OF RURAL LIFE IN COMMON ENGLISH BY WILLIAM BARNES AUTHOR OF ' POEMS OF RURAL LIFE IN THE DORSET DIALECT ' LONDON M A C ]VI I L L A N AND CO. 1868 LONDON : PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW -STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET /5f /"ry PREFACE As I think that some people, beyond the bounds of Wessex, would allow me the pleasure of believing that they have deemed the matter of my homely poems in our Dorset mother- speech to be worthy of their reading, I have written a few of a like kind, in common Eng- lish; not, however, without a misgiving that what I have done for a wider range of readers, may win the good opinion of fewer. W. BARNES. 8G0338 CONTENTS AUTUMN HOME FROM A JOURNEY THE WOODSIDE ROAD THE MOTHER'S DREAM THE CHILD LOST WHITE IN THE NIGHT WHITE AND BLUE WINTER COMING WINTER WEATHER THE BARS ON THE LANDRIDGE THE STREAM SIDE PAGE I 3 5 8 lO 12 14 i6 i8 21 23 viii CONTENTS PAGE MELHILL FEAST 25 THE DUET 28 I AND THE DOG 30 THE SURPRISE 33 ROUND THINGS 34 A BRISK WIND 36 SHELLBROOK ....... 37 THE WIND AT THE DOOR • • • • 39 BY THE MILL IN SPRING . . . . 41 HAPPY TIMES 43 GREEN . » . . . . . .45 LOWSHOT LIGHT 46 THE BROKEN JUG 47 WELL TO DO . . . . . . .49 THE GROVE 52 WHEN WE WERE YOUNG TOGETHER . . 54 THE FIELD PATH . . . . . .58 CONTENTS ix PAGE THE PARROCK 6o SING AGAIN TOGETHER 62 SEASON TOKENS 64 NOT FAR TO GO (i^ CHANGES ........ 68 DEADNESS OF THE COUNTRY . . . 70 THE BENCH BY THE GARDEN WALL . • 71 THE STONEN STEPS ']■}, ON THE HILL 76 THE OLD CLOCK 80 THE WIND UP THE STREAM .... 82 WORK AND WAIT S3 NO TWO DAYS ALIKE 85 SEE-SAW 87 THE SISTER AND BROTHERS .... 89 THE REEDS ABOUT THE POOL . . • QI SUMMER WIND GUSTS 93 X CONTENTS PAGE A MATCH OF QUESTIONS . ... '95 THE STRING TOKEN 97 SHEEP IN THE SHADE 98 CLOUDS 100 THE PRIZE WINNERS I02 WORK AFIELD I08 WHEN WE THAT HAVE CHILDREN, WERE CHILDREN IIO PENTRIDGE 112 SHELTER 114 BY NEIGHBOURS' DOORS I16 BETWEEN HAYMAKING AND HARVEST . . I18 HOME'S A NEST 121 ON THE ROAD I26 MOTHER OF MOTHERS 1 28 FALLING THINGS 131 THE MORNING MOON I34 CONTENTS xi PAGE JOY PASSING BY 1 38 RIGHTING UP THE CHURCH . . . . I41 JOHN TALKING ANGRILY OF A NEIGHBOUR BEFORE AN ECHO 143 THE SHOP OF MEAT-WARE, OR WARES TO EAT 1 46 WALKING HOME AT NIGHT . . . . I48 THE KNOLL 150 A WISH FULFILLED I53 AT THE DOOR 156 HILL AND DELL 159 DANIEL AND JANE l6l HOME 166 FELLOWSHIP 169 AIR AND LIGHT I72 MELDON HILL 1 74 SOFT SOUND 176 THE VOICE AT HOME 1 78 xii CONTENTS PAGE THE FIRESIDE CHAIRS l8o COME AND MEET ME 1 83 MY FORE-ELDERS 186 THE LOST LITTLE SISTER .... 188 BLACK AND WHITE I90 BED-RIDDEN I92 THE WINDOW 194 PLORATA VERIS LACHRYMIS . . . . I96 DO GOOD 199 A UTUMN The long-lighted days begin to shrink, And flowers are thin in mead among The late-shooting grass, that shines along Brook upon brook, and brink by brink. The wheat, that was lately rusding thick. Is now up in mows that still are new ; All yellow before the sky of blue, Tip after tip, and rick by rick. No starlings arise in liock on wing ; The cuckoo has still'd his woodland sound ; The swallow no longer wheels around. Dip after dip, and swing by swing. AUTUMN "WHiile shooters are roving round the knoll, By wind-driven leaves on quiv'ring grass, Or down where the sky-blue waters pass, Fall after fall, and shoal by shoal ; Their brown-dappled pointers nimbly trot By russet-bough'd trees, while gun-smoke grey Dissolves in the air of sunny day, Reef upon reef, at shot by shot. While now I can Avalk a dusty mile, I'll take me a day while days are clear, To find a few friends that still are dear. Face upon face, and smile by smile. HOME FROM A JOURNEY Back home on my mare I took my way, Through hour upon hour of waning day, Where thistles on windy ledges shook, And aspen leaves quiver'd o'er tlie hrook, By slope and by le\el ambling on. Till day with the sunken sun was gone, And out in the west a sheet of light Was lingering pale — pale in the night. At last, as my mare came snorting near My dwelling, where all tilings near were dear. The apj)les were swung in darksome balls. And roses hung dark beside the walls, li 2 HOME FROM A JOURNEY No COWS were about the fields to low, The fowls were at roost in sleeping row, And only the nightingale sang high In moongleamings pale — pale in the sky. Within my old door my lamp was clear, To show me the faces many and dear, My mother's, now dimm'd by life-long care. My wife's, as a wife's, of ten years' wear. My children's, well shapen line by line. One seven, one five, one three years, mine, And one that has come before our sight. His one moon pale — pale in the night. THE WOOD SIDE ROAD As along by the wood of rustling beech, And whispering pine without a breach, I went where the gravel road did reach. For men on their way to roam, O, On homeward, or out from home, O. A squire that rode a mare milkwhite. Came on with a lady fair to sight, All gleaming with gold, in blue bedight, On a mettlesome bay to roam, O, On homeward, or out from home, O. THE J FOODS IDE ROAD For aught that I knew the woody ground That then with their horses' hoofs did sound, Was all their own land to ramble round A half of the day, and roam, O, On homeward, or out from home, O. But then on a pony's tripping pace, There came on a girl with sweetest face. In brown, Avith a hood of grey, to trace Her roadway so gay, and roam, O, But where, aye where was her home, O % Below at the mill, the brook's low shore ? Or else at the wheelwright's paint-streak'd door ? Or else at the dairy's well-clean'd floor % To start in the day to roam, O, And come before night back home, O. THE IVOODSIDE ROAD I never would care for gold or land, But only would ask her heart and hand, And one little stable, where might stand Her pony with hay, to roam, O, With mine for her happy home, O. THE MOTHERS DREAM I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, Oh ! the touching sight Makes me still to weep : Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Aye, the child I had, But was not to keep. As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There, in train, came by Children fair and meek, THE MOTHER'S DREAM Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak. Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn. But the lamp he had, Oh ! it did not burn ; He, to clear my doubt, Said, half turned about, ' Your tears put it out ; Mother, never mourn.' 10 THE CHILD LOST When evening is closing in all round, And winds in the dark-bough'd timber sound, The flame of my candle, dazzling bright, May shine full clear — full clear may shine. But never can show my child to sight. And warm is the bank, where boughs are still. On timber below the windward hill, But now, in the stead of summer hay, Dead leaves are cast — are cast dead leaves. Where lately I saw my child at play. THE CHILD LOST ii And Oh ! could I see, as may be known To angels, my little maid full grown, As time would have made her, woman tall. If she had lived — if lived had she And not have died now, so young and small. Do children that go to heaven play? Are young that were gay, in heaven gay 1 Are old peojjle bow'd by weak'ning time. In heaven bow'd, — all bow'd in heaven? Or else are they all in blissful prime ? Yes, blest with all blessings are the blest, Their lowest of good 's above our best. So show me the highest soul you can In shape and mind — in mind and shape Yet far above him is heaven's man. 12 WHITE IN THE NIGHT And John, that by day is down at mill, As soon as the night is come, Goes out from his millgear standing still, For home, all white in the night. And Jenny may wear her white, as out To town she may take her road By day ; but at dusk no more's about Abroad, in white in the night. For though at the brook the bridge is strong, And white as it white can be. That folk in the dark may not go wrong, But sec its white in the night. WHITE IN THE MGIIT And though the full moon may freely shed Its beams upon gate and wall, And down on the road that people tread They fall, so white in the night. Yet Jenny at dusk is fearful now, Since once, in the mead alone, She took for a ghost a sheeted cow, Outshown in white in the night. Jenny, the while the moon may gleam, 1 wish you would come and roam With me, to behold the falling stream In foam so white in the night. For foirer than all the hues of day. Or grass, or the sky of blue, Or blossoms of spring that shine so gay, Are you in white in the night. H WHITE AND BLUE INIy love is of comely height and straight, And comely in all her ways and gait, She shows in her face the rose's hue, And her lids on her eyes, are white on blue. When Elemley club-men walk'd in I\Iay, And folk came in clusters every way. As soon as the sun dried up tlie dew, And clouds in the sky were white on blue. She came by the down with tripping walk, By daisies and shining banks of chalk, And brooks with the crowfoot flow'rs to strew The sky-tinted water, white on blue ; WHITE AND BLUE 15 She nodded her head as play'd the band, She lapp'd with her foot as she did stand, She danc'd in a reel, and wore all new A skirt with a jacket, white and blue. I singled her out from thin and stout, From slender and stout I chose her out, And wliat in the evening could I do But give her my breast-knot white and blue? i6 WINTER COMING I'm glad we have wood in store awhile, For soon we must shut the door awhile, As winterly winds may roar awhile, And scatter the whirling snow. The swallows have now all hied away, And most of the flowers have died away, And boughs, with their leaves all dried away. Are windbeaten to and Iro. Your walks in the ashtree droves are cold, Your banks in the timber'd groves are cold, Your seats on the garden coves are cold, Where sunheat did lately glow. WINTER COMING 17 No rosebud is blooming red to-day, No pink for your breast or head to-day, O'erhanging the garden bed to-day, Is nodding its sweet head low. No more is the swinging lark above, And air overclouded dark above, So baffles the sun's last spark above, That shadows no longer show. So now let your warm cheek bloom to-night, "Wliile fireflames heat the room to-night. Dispelling the flickering gloom to-night, AVhile winds of the winter blow. i8 WINTER WEATHER When stems of elms may rise in row, Dark brown, from hillocks under snow. And woods may reach as black as night. By sloping fields of cleanest white. If shooters by the snowy rick, Where trees are high, and wood is thick, Can mark the tracks the game may prick, Tliey like the winter weather. Or where may spread the grey-blue sheet Of ice, for skaters' gliding feet, That they uplift, from side to side, I^ong yards, and hit tliem down to slide WINTER WEATHER Or sliders, one that totters slack Of limb ; and one that's on his back ; And one upright tliat keeps his track, Have fun in winter weather. AVhen we at night, in snow and gloom, May seek some neighbour's lighted room, Though snow may show no path before The house, we still can find the door, And there, as round the brands may spread The creeping fire, of cherry red, Our feet from snow, from wind our head, Are wanii in winter weather. Wherever day may give our road, By hills or hollows oversnow'd. By windy gaps, or shelter'd nooks, Or bridged ice of frozen brooks, C 2 »9 20 WINTER WEATHER Still may we all, as night may come, Know where to find a peacefijl home, And glowing fire for fingers numb With cold, in winter weather. 21 THE BARS ON THE LAND RIDGE The bars on the timber'd ridge outspan The gap where the shining skies may show Tlie people that clamber to and fro, Woman by woman, man by man. To strangers that once may reach the gap, How fair is the dell beyond the ridge. With houses and trees, and church and bridge, Wood upon wood, and knap by knap. Down here may be pleasant ways to rove, But oh I 'tis another place behind The bars, that would take the most my mind, Orchard by orchard, grove by grove. 22 THE BARS ON THE LANDRIDGE When under the moon, the bars' smooth ledge, Rubb'd up to a gloss, is bright as glass, And shadows outmark, on dewy grass, Rail upon rail, and edge by edge. Then there is my way, where nightwinds sound So softly on boughs, where lights and shades Are playing on slopes, by hills and glades, Tree upon tree, and mound by mound. THE STREAM SIDE I SAT a little while beside A greystoned rock, the rugged brow Of our clear pool, where waters glide By leaning tree and hanging bough ; In fall, when open air was cool, And skimming swallows left tlie pool, And glades in long-cast shades did lie Below the yet clear sky. The leaves that through the spring were gay, Were now by hasty winds that shook Them wither'd off their quiv'ring spray, AH borne away along the brook, 24 THE STREAM SIDE Without a day of rest around Their mother tree, on quiet gi^ound. But cast away on blast and wave, To lie in some chance grave. When sickness smote poor Mary low, And sent her ofif her life's old ground, To poor-house, day by day might show Her bread, but not her friends around ; She never fell to lie at rest, At this old place, she liked the best. But went as leaves off-sent by waves. To lie in distant graves. -D MELHILL FEAS2 Ave up at the feast, by Melhill's brow, So softly below the clouds in flight, There swept on the wood, the shade and light, Tree after tree, and bough by bough. And there, as among the crowd, I took My wandering way, both to and fro, Full comely were shapes that day could show, Face upon face, and look by look; And there, among girls on left and right, On one with a winsome smile, I set My looks ; and the more, the more we met Glance upon glance, and sight by sight. 26 MELHILL FEAST The road she had come by then was soon The one of my paths that best I kne^^^ By gUttering gossamer and dew, Evening by evening, moon by moon. First by the door of maidens fair, As fair as the best till she is nigh, Though now I can heedless pass them by, One after one, or pair by pair. Then by the orchards dim and cool. And then along Woodcombe's timber'd side. And then by the meads, where waters glide Shallow by shallow, pool by pool. And then to the house that stands alone With roses around the porch and wall, Where, up by tlic bridge, the waters fall Rock under rock, and stone by stone. MELHILL FEAST 27 Sweet were the hopes I found to cheer My heart as I thought on time to come, With one that would bless my happy home, Moon upon moon, and year by year. 2S THE DUET As late at a house I made my call, A mother and daughter's voices rang, In twotreble songs, they sweetly sang. Strain upon strain, and fall by fall. The mother was comely, still, but staid, The daughter was young, but womantall. As people come on to great from small, Maid upon child, and wife from maid. And oh ! where the mother, in the train Of years, may have left her child alone, AVith no fellow voice to match her own, Song upon song, and strain by strain. THE DUET 29 May Providence show the way to bring Her voice to be mine, with me to stay, While softly my life may wear away, Summer by summer, spring by spring. / AND THE DOG As I was wont to straggle out To your house, oh ! how glad the dog, With low-put nose, would nimbly jog, Along my path and hunt about ; And his great pleasure was to run By timber'd hedge and banky ledge, And ended where my own begun, At your old door and stonen floor. And there, as time was gliding by. With me so (juick, with him so slow. How he would look at me, and blow, From time to time, a whining sigh. / AND THE DOG 3' That meant, 'Now come along the land, With timber'd knolls, and rabbit holes, I can't tliink what )-ou have on hand. With this young face, in this old place.' THE SURPRISE As there I left the road in May, And took my way along a ground, I found a glade with girls at play, By leafy boughs close-hemm'd around, And there, with stores of harmless joys, They plied their tongues, in merry noise. Though little did they seem to fear So queer a stranger might be near, Teeh-hee ! Look here ! Hah ! ha ! Look there ! And oh ! so playsome, oh ! so fair. And one would dance as one would spring, Or bob or bow with leering smiles. And one would swing, or sit and sing. Or sew a stitch or two at whiles, TITE SURPRISE y^ And one skipp'd on with downcast face, All heedless, to my very place, And there, in fright, with one foot out, Made one dead step and turn'd about. Heeh, hee, oh ! oh ! ooh ! oo ! Look there ' And oh ! so playsome, oh ' so fair. Away they scamper'd all, full speed, By boughs that swung along their track. As rabbits out of wood at feed. At sight of men all scamper back. And one pull'd on behind her heel, A thread of cotton, off her reel, And oh : to follow that white clue, I felt I fain could scamper too. Teeh, hee, nan here. Eeh ! ee ! look there ! And oh ! so playsome, oh ! so fair. D 54 ROUND THINGS A FAIRY ring as round's the sun, Beside the lea would bend its rim, And near at hand the waves would nm Across the pond with rounded brim. And there, by round-built ricks of hay. By sun-heat burnt, by sunshine brown'd. We met in merry ring, to play, All springing on, and wheeling round. And there, as stones we chanc'd to fling, Swept out in flight a lofty bow, And fell on water ; ring by ring Of waves bespread the pool below, ROUND THINGS 35 Beside the bridge's arch tliat springs Between the banks, witliin the brims, Where swung the lowly-bending swings, On elm-tree boughs, on mossy limbs. D 2 36 A BRISK WIND The burdock leaves beside the ledge, The leaves upon the poplar's height, Were blown by windblasts up on edge. And show'd their undersides of white ; And willow trees beside the rocks, All bent grey leaves, and swung grey boughs, As there, on wagging heads, dark locks, Bespread red cheeks, behung white brows. 37 SHELLBROOK When out by Shellbrook, round by stile and tree, With longer days and sunny hours come on, With spring and all its sunny showers come on, With May and all its shining flowers come on, How merry, young with young would meet in glee. And there, how we in merry talk went by The foam below the river bay, all white. And blossom on the green-leav'd may, all white, And chalk beside the dusty way, all white, Where glitt'ring water match'd with blue the sky. 58 SHELLBROOK Or else in winding paths and lanes, along The timb'ry hillocks, sloping steep, we roam'd; Or down the dells and dingles deep we roam'd ; Or by the bending brook's wide sweep we roam'd On holidays, \vith merry laugh or song. But now, the frozen churchyard wallings keep The patch of tower-shaded ground, all white. Where friends can find the frosted mound, all white With turfy sides ui^swelling round, all white With young offsunder'd from the young in sleep. 39 THE WIND AT THE DOOR As dayliglit darken'd on the dewless grass, There still, with no one come by me, To stay awhile at home by me, Within the house, now dumb by me, I sat me still as eveningtidc did pass. And there a windblast shook the rattling door, And seem'd, as wind did moan without. As if my love alone without, And standing on the stone without, Had there come back with happiness once more. 40 THE WIND AT THE DOOR I went to door, and out from trees, above My head, upon the blast by me, Sweet blossoms there were cast by me. As if my love had pass'd by me, And flung them down, a token of her love. Sweet blossoms of the tree where now I mourn, I thought, if you did blow for her, For apples that should grow for her. And fall red-ripe below for her, Oh ! then how happy I should see you kern. But no. Too soon my fond illusion broke, No comely soul in white like her. No fair one, tripping light, like her, No wife of comely height like her, Went by, but all my grief again awoke. 41 BY THE MILL IN SPRING With wind to blow, and streams to flow, To flow along the gravel stone, The waves were bright, the cliff's were white. Were white before the evening sun. Where shaken sedge would softly sigh, As we, with windblown locks, went by. As lambs would swing their tails, and spring; And spring about the ground chalk white ; The smoke was blue, above the yew ; The yew beside your house in sight ; And wind would sing with sullen sound. Against the tree beside the mound ; 42 BY THE MILL IN SPRING Where down at mill, the wheel was still, Was still, and dripp'd with glitt'ring tears, With dusty poll, up lane would stroll. The miller's man with mill-stunn'd ears ; While weakly-wailing wind would swim, By ground with ivied elm-trees dim. My work and way may fail or fay. Or fay as days may freeze or glow, I'll try to bear my toil or care. Or care, with either friend or foe. If, after all, the evening tide May bring me peace, where I abide. 43 HAPPY TIMES How smoothly then did run my happy days, When things to charm my mind and sight were nigh ; The gHtt'ring brook, that wander'd round my home, With rock -shot foam, downfalhng white, was nigh ; And glossy-winged rooks, above the grove, Off-sweeping round their tree, in flight, were nigh. And daws about the castle's rugged walls, And ivy-hooded tower's height, were nigh. A bower outhollow'd in a hedge of yew. Would yield me shelter'd rest, when night was nigh, 44 HAPPY TIMES And in the dusk of moonshades, near the door, My playsome children, skipping Hght, were nigh. And there I never met a grief half way, In thinking ev'ry day a blight was nigh. But found it best, with thankfulness and care. To feel that He that is our might, was nigh. 45 GREEN Our summer way to churcli did wind about The cliff, where ivy on the ledge was green. Our summer way to town did skirt the wood, Where shining leaves, in tree and hedge, were green. Our summer way to milking in the mead. Was on by brooks, where flutt'ring sedge was green. Our homeward ways all gathered into one, Where moss upon the roofstone's edge was green. 46 LOW SHOT LIGHT As I went eastward ere the sun had set, His yellow light on bough by bough was bright. And there, by buttercups beside the hill. Below the elmtrees, cow by cow, was bright. While, after heavy-headed horses' heels, With slowly-rolling wheels, the plough was bright. And up among the people, on the sides, One lovely face, with sunny brow, was bright. And aye, for that one face, the bough, and cow, And plough, in my sweet fancy, now are bright. 47 THE BROKEN JUG JENNY AND TOM (Tom idly swings about Jenny's jug, and breaks it against a stone) J. As if you could not leave the jug alone ! Now you have smack'd my jug ; Now you have whack'd my jug ; Now you have crack'd my jug, Against the stone. T. The jug was crack'd before, unknown to you: So don't belie the stone ; It scarce went nigh the stone, It just went by the stone, And broke in two. 48 THE BROKEN JUG J. Oh ! crack'd before ! no ! that was sound enough, From back to lip was sound, To stand or tip was sound. To hold or dip, was sound. Don't talk such stuff. T. How high then must I take its price to reach? I'd buy some more as good ; I'd buy a score as good ; I'd buy a store as good j For twopence each. J. Indeed ! when stonen jugs are sold so dear ! No, there's a tap for lies ; And there's a slap for lies ; And there's a rap for lies, About your ear. 7. Oh ! there are pretty hands ! a little dear! 49 WELL TO DO As wind might blow along the snow, By shelter'd nooks, and hollow caves. By icy eaves, and frosty leaves. And streams too hard to run in waves, No inn-board then, in swinging slack. And creaking shrill, would keep me back. Would call me back, by creaking shrill, From home and you, beyond the hill, Though we were well to do. When down before our porchlbd door. The moonshade of the house might lie. Our room would show a ruddy glow To muffled people passing by, £ 50 WELL TO DO For we had flames before our feet, And on our board, both meal and meat; Both meal and meat upon our board, Without a stint, could we afford. So well were we to do. When snow was deep, for our few sheep, And made their whitest wool look brown, And cold-pinched cows, below white boughs, Had no wami ground to lay them down. Then I'd a roof for ev'ry head. For ev'ry hide a strawen bed, A strawen bed for ev'ry hide. And cribs of hay all fill'd with pride. So well was I to do. When clad anew, from crown to shoe, The children walk'd with prouder pace, And you might tell, or only spell. Of what would suit your shape or face. WELL TO DO SI And you came out, and look'd so fine, I felt quite proud to call you mine, To call you mine I felt quite proud, Before our friends, or in a crowd, When we were well to do. E 2 52 THE GROVE 'TwAS there in summer down the grove, Where I and long-lost friends would rove, Where then the gravelbedded brook, O'ershaded under hanging boughs, On-trickled round the quiet nook, Or lay in pools for thirsty cows. And here arc still the stones we trod, In stepping o'er the stream, dryshod, And here are leaves that lie all dead. About the lofty-headed tree, AVherc leaves then quiver'd overhead, All playfully alive as we. THE GROVE 53 While now, by moonlight, nightwinds keen, May shake the ivy, ever green, By this old wall, and hemlocks dry May rattle by the leafless thorn, I still can fancy people by That T have lost, to live forlorn. 54 WHEN WE WERE YOUNG TOGETHER JOHN AND FRIEND J. When we, all friends, in manhood's prime, Did meet, work free, with weather fine ; And you had made, at evening time, Your work-day good, as I had mine. Then one would call, as he might come. To fetch another out from home : ' Come out a while with me.' ' Aye, I shall soon be free.' ' How long have I to wait ? ' ' Why, I am coming straight.' Fr. Aye, aye, 'twas so, we did, I know. When we were young together. WHEN WE WERE YOUNG TOGETHER 55 J. While summer days might slowly run, Through noons of shrunken shades, and heat, And we, well-brown'd below the sun. Might meet, and call as we might meet : ' Hallo ! wliy you but seldom come For me.' ' Nor you for me at home.' ' Well, where's your road to night? ' Where you should go by right ' ' Shall I be welcome there % ' ' To one, I'd nearly swear.' Fr. Aye, aye, like that, we used to chat. When wc were young together. /. Then we, with many dear old names. Would meet within some neighbour's door, And man antl maid, in merry games, Would spring and scuff about the floor. If one might speak a little tart. Another's answer was as smart. 56 WHEN WE WERE YOUNG TOGETHER ' With whom are you to go ? ' Here face to face in row.' ' Here, now we'll dance a reel,' ' Well foot it, toe and heel.' -Fr. Aye, there we danced. And hopp'd and pranced, When we were young together. /. Then we in all our pride, would try Wliich man could run, or leap the best, Or lift the greatest weight, or shy A pebble truer than the rest. ' Who'll walk along these narrow poles ? ' ' Not you, my lad, with your splay soles,' ' Now, you can't hit that stone.' ' I can, liiJiee-it. Well done ! ' Well, you can't clear the brook.' ' Oh, can't I then ? You look.' Fr. And down he dash'd, as water splash'd, When we were young together. WHEN WE WERE YOUNG TOGETHER 57 In summer time we went to take Our picnic, by the castle walls, And play'd our games beside the lake, Where swam the swans, by waterfalls ; And there, for merry pranks did crawl. About the trees, or broken wall. ' Here, see how high am I.' ' Well here am I, as high.' ' You can't climb down, old boy.' ' I can, I'll bet'—' Heigh ! hoy !' Fi: And downi he fell, you need not tell, When we were young together. 58 THE FIELD PATH Here sounded words of dear old folk, Of this dear ground, Where ivy wound About this ribbed oak. And still their words, their words now gone, Are dear to me that linger on. And here, as comely forms would pass. Their shades would slide Below their side, Along the flow'ry grass. And now, their shades, their sliades now gone, Still hallow ground they fell upon. THE FIELD PATH 59 But could they come where then they stroU'd, However young Might sound their tongue, Their shades would show them old. So sweet are shades, the shades now shown, The shades of trees they all have known. These ashen poles that shine so tall, Are still too young To have upsprung In days when I was small ; But you, stout oak, you, oak so stout, Were here when my first moon ran out. 6o THE PARROCK Within the parrock in a nook, By high-shot ehn-trees all around Its sides, where upper tree-boughs shook In wind that hardly sank to gi^ound, By bough, by cow. With pail and stool, when air was cool, ^ We sat in parrock, in the nook. And there, as evening shades might fall. From elms along the western rank. Or else, as moonlight, from the tall- Stemm'd trees, might reach the eastern bank, By ledge, by hedge. We then would walk, or sit and talk. Within the parrock in a nook. THE PARROCK 6i Where bright by day the grass may look, Where cool the shade may fall at noon, Where dark is yet our shady nook, Or pale the ground below the moon, By tump, by hump, I still would go, with one I know, Within the parrock, in a nook. 62 SING AGAIN TOGETHER Since now, once more beside this mound, We friends are here below the limes. Come, let us try if we can sound A song we sang in early times. When out among the hay in mead, Or o'er the fields, or down the lane. Our Jenny's voice would gaily lead The others, chiming strain by strain. When roses' buds are all outblown, The lilies' cups will open white. When lilies' cups, at last, are flown, The later pinks unfold to sight. SING AGAIN TOGETHER 63 We learnt good songs that came out new, But now are old among the young, And, after we are gone, but few Will know tlie songs that we have sung. So let us sing another rhyme On this old mound in summer time. 64 SEASON TOKENS The shades may show the tmie of day, And flowers, how summer wanes away. Where thyme on turfy banks may grow, Or mallows, by the laneside ledge. About the blue-barr'd gate, may show Their grey-blue heads, beside the hedge, Or where the poppy's scarlet crown May nod by clover, dusky red, Or where the field is ruddy brown. By brooks, with shallow-water "d bed. The shades may show the time of day. And llow'rs, how summer wanes away. SEASON' TOKENS. 65 Or, where the Hght of dying day, May softly shine against the wall, Below the sloping thatch, brown-grey, Or over pale-green grass, may fall. Or where, in fields that heat bums dry. May show the thistle's i)urple studs, Or beds of dandelions ply Their stems with yellow fringed buds. There shades may show the time of day, And flowers, how summer wanes away. 66 NOT FAR TO GO As upland fields were sunburnt brown, And heat-dried brooks were running small, And sheep were gather'd, panting all, Below the hawthorn on the down ; The while my mare, with dipping head, Pull'd on my cart, above the bridge ; I saw come on, beside the ridge, A maiden, white in skin and thread, And walking, with an elbow load. The way I drove, along my road. As there, with comely steps, up hill She rose by elm-trees, all in ranks, From shade to shade, by flow'ry banks. Where flew the bird with whistling bill, NOT FAR TO GO 67 I kindly said, ' Now won't you ride, This burning weather, up the knap? T have a seat that fits tlie trap, — And now is swung from side to side.' ' O no,' she cried, ' I thank you, no. I've Httle farther now to go.' Then, up the timber'd slope, I found The prettiest house, a good day's ride Would bring you by, with porch and side. By rose and jessamine well bound. And near at hand, a spring and pool. With laA\Ti well sunn'd and bower cool : And while the wicket fell behind Her steps, I thought, if I would find A wife, I need not blush to show, I've little farther now to go. F 2 68 CHANGES And oh ! what changes we all know, Long years can bring in one small place, In names and shapes, from face to face. As souls will come and souls will go : And here, where hills have all stood fast, While babes have come and men have pass'd, The wind-stream softly seems to sigh, ' Man's Hfetime glides away as L' The child may open here his eyes, Long miles away to live a man, The mother here may end her span Of life, where no dear daughter lies. CHANGES 69 As time steals on, fiom day to day, And nothing stands at one same stay. The wind-blast softly seems to sigh, ' Man's lifetime glides away as I.' As clapper-sounded bells ring fast, They tell the moments out, and clocks That slowly sound by knocks on knocks. May tell how daily hours have pass'd ; In Sunday chimes a week is fled, In Easter knells a year is dead, And airy bell-sounds seem to say. Like us man's lifetime glides away. 70 DEADNESS OF THE COUNTRY O NO, 'twas lifeless here, he said, To him the place seem'd all but dead, Stone-dead, he said, but why so dead, On lands with chirping birds on wing. And rooks on high, with blackbirds nigh, And swallows wheeling round in ring, And fish to swim, where waters roam, By bridge and rock to fall in foam. 71 THE BENCH BY THE GARDEN WALL As day might cool, and in the pool, The sliaded waves might ripple dim, We used to walk, or sit in talk. Below the limetree's leaning limb, Where willows' drooping boughs might foil Around us, near the garden wall. Where children's heads on evening beds. In dull-ear'd sleep were settled sound, The moon's bright ring would slowly si)ring, From down behind the woody mound. With light that slanted down on all • The willows nigh the garden wall. 72 THE BENCH BY THE GARDEN WALL By roof-eaves spread up over head, There clung the wren's brown nest of hay, And wind would make the ivy shake, And your dark locks of hair to play, As you would tell the news of all The day, beside the garden wall. The while might run, the summer sun, On high, above the green-tree'd land, Few days would come, for jaunts from home. And none without some work on hand, Yet we enjoy'd at eveningfall. Our bench beside the garden Avail. Our flow'rs would blow, our fruit would grow, To hang in air, or lie on ground. Our bees would hum, or go and come By small-door'd hives, well hackled round ; All this we had, and over all Our bench beside the garden wall. 73 THE STONE N STEPS A MAN AND HIS FRIEND M. These stonen steps that stand so true With tread on tread, a foot-reach wide, Have always dimb'd the sloping side Of this steep ledge, for nie and you ; Had people built the steps before They turn'd the arch of our old door ? Were these old stairs laid down by man, Before the bridge's arched sjxm 1 Did workmen set these stones so trim Before they built the spire so slim ? Er. Ah ! who can tell Avhen first — aye who, — These steps first bore a shoe. 74 THE STONEN STEPS M. And here, beside the sloping hump, From stone to stone with faces flat. The httlefooted children pat, And heavy-booted men-folk clump ; But which the last may beat a shoe. On these old stones, shall I or you % Which little boy of mine shall climb These well-worn steps, the last in time % Which girl, childquick, or womanslow, Shall walk the Ust these stones in row ? Fr. Aye, who among us now can know Who last shall come or go? M. The road leads on, below these blocks To yonder springhead's stony cove, And Meldon Hall ; and elm-tree grove, And mill, beside the foamy rocks. And up these well-worn blocks of stone I came when I first ran alone, THE STONEN STEPS 75 The stonen stairs beclimb'd the mound, Ere father put a foot to ground, 'Twas up the steps his father came, To make his mother change her name. Fr. Aye, who can ever tell what pairs Of feet once trod the stairs % 76 ON THE HILL HUSBAND AND WIFE H. Why 'tis nice on the hill, at the time of the year When the summer is in, and the weather is clear, WTien the flow'rs at our feet are all blossoming gay. And the fields down below us are grey with the hay, Hallo ! why 'tis steep, and you pant. Will you stop ? And look down around. At rest on the ground, Where thyme is outspread In a bed, on the mound. Over yonder, how glittering sway the treetops, All glowing with sunliglit that shoots by the copse. Oy THE IHLL 77 Where bluebells in white-clouded May-time bestrew The wood-shelter'd glade in a sheet of pale blue. You are cold in tlie shoulders, then, Put on your shawl. W. There Brown's folk all guide Their new boat for a ride. You may see their oars play With the spray at the side. H. Out there are the hawthorns, where blossoms now fade, Some here, and some there, with less shelter than shade. The old ones, like fathers, now ready to fall ; The younger, like children, from greater to small ; And some are as prim as a man in his prime. And some with their shroud That west winds have bow'd, As eastward they set Witli their wet-shedding cloud. 78 ON THE HILL W. Well now here we are, on the uppermost ground, "Where the thyme-bedded hillocks are swelling so round. But what place is this with the banks lying low. And the big mossy flintstones in straight-reaching row. H. Why here, by the tale that poor father would tell, A beacon did stand. To light with a brand. And call men to blows If their foes were to land. There's a cloud o'er the lowland, that floats at our height. With its shadow o'ersweeping the ground in its flight, W. Now it climbs o'er the tow'r, now o'ershadows the boughs. Now it leaps o'er the stream, now it darkens the cows, 'Tis now on the rook'ry, and now on the ricks, And now comes to catch Up our own little hatch, And shade from the sun The red tun on our thatch. OiV THE HILL 79 W. There's a man on a horse, oh ! he spurs him well on, Is somebody ill then ? or where is he gone % There's a maid by the buttercups there, — and 'tis who ? Jane Hine I can tell by her skirt of pale blue ; And now she is slipping along by the slope, And now she looks round In a fright, at the sound. Of the bull that is blaring And tearing the ground. 8o THE OLD CLOCK That old clock's face yet keeps its place, And wheels its hands around, His bob still swings, his bell still rings, As when I heard his sound, On leaving home so long ago. And left him ticking, ticking slow. No rust yet clogs its catching cogs, To keep its wheels all still, No blow e'er fell to crack his bell, That hourly ringles shrill. I wish my life were guided on As true as that old clock has gone. THE OLD CLOCK 8i Who now may wind his chain, untwin'd In running out his hours, Or make a gloss to shine across His door, with golden flow'rs, Since he has sounded out the last Still hours our dear good mother pass'd. 82 THE WIND UP THE STREAM The shaded river ran below A ledge, with elms that stood in row, By leafy ivy-stems intwin'd, In light that shot from rind to rind ; And winds that play'd, now brisk, now slack. Against the stream, were driving back The running waves, and made them seem To show an upward-flowing stream : As man, while hope beguiles him, thinks His life is rising while it sinks. 83 WORK AND WAIT HUSBAND AND WIFE H. The sweet'ning fruit that fall shall bring Is now a bud within its rind ; The nest the bird shall build in spring Is now in moss and grass untvvin'd ; The summer days will show us, hung On boughs, the fruit and nest of young. I waited on, through time and tide, Till I could house you here, ni}- bride. JV. If wedlock bonds in heaven are bound, Then what's our lot will all come round. // INIy new-built house's brick-red side A few years since was clay unfound ; My reeden roof, outslanting wide, Was yet in seed, unsprung from ground. G 2 84 WORK AND WAIT And now no house on Woodcombe land Is put much better out of hand Than this, that I, through time and tide, Was bent to build for you to guide. W. I'll try with heart, and hand, and head, That you shall speed as you have sped. H. A few years since my wheels, unmade, Were living timber, under bark, And my new ploughshare's grey-blue blade Was ore deep lying in the dark ; But now I have my gear, and now Have bought two mares to haul or plough. I waited on, in careful rnood, For stock to %vin our livelihood. W. Aye 'work and wait's' the wisest way, For ' work and wait ' will win the day. S5 JS^O TWO DAYS ALIKE Aye, no two days, in all the year. May fall alike in ev'ry way ; Alike in clouds that skies may show. In all their glowing dyes, Alike in winds, as low or high. Or east or west, or wet or dry. Alike in birds, that gripe the bark, Or pipe on boughs, as leaved or bare, Alike in cows, by mound or tree, Dispers'd about the ground; Below a moon, as thin a bow, Or full, with stars as high or low. 86 NO TIVO DAYS ALIKE Alike in ev'ry face, to take Its place, with all its looks again, And tongues to speak the same kind words, Or call again each name. Alike in trodden path, and flow'r Below the feet, the selfsame hour. If night can never fall to men With all a foreday show'd their minds, Then how shall merry cheer outlast The many-nighted year ; Or why should time no more fulfil Our hope for change to good from ill? 87 SEE-SA IV A HOUSEWIFE TO A NEIGHBOUR H. So you are out of tea, then, quite, And out of candle for the night ? N. And must be till the flood is do^vn, And I can go again to town. H. Come in, then, you shall have your share Of anything that I can spare ; It would be hard if my good friends Did me good turns, without amends. At scc-saWy seesaw, I and you Would always make the fellow two. 88 SEE -SAW N. As we had puU'd the uppermost Grey rail, out clear of post and post, And on the middle bar would lay Its even-weighted ends ; to play At see-saw, high, with springy toes, And see-saw, low, with springy blows. H. And, so as you lift me, I'll try To lift up you, if I am high ; Some evil day, if I let you Fall down, why, I may tumble too. 89 THE SISTER AND BROTHERS he. Come out to see the glowAvorms, Do, As thick as blossoms on a bough. S. O no ; tlie grass is wet with dew, And I have put on shppers now. Here's Tom. Where is it he comes fromi Tom. The nightingale's by Woodcombe bog ; Come down to hear it over hill. 5. No, 'tis too far, and full of fog Out there ; I shall but catch a chill. Here's Bill, head foremost. What's his will? 90 THE SISTER AND BROTHERS Bill. The Lincham bells are up full swing And ringing peals. Come up the knoll. S. And ringing peals ! \Vliy they can't ring There now, they are but fit to toll. Well done. Here's Tom again, full run. Tom. John Hine is by his garden wall, And playing on his clarinet. S. How I am teazed among you all ! I s'pose you'll have me out a bit. 91 THE REEDS ABOUT THE TOOL We children, hot at work, here built Our hut for childhood play, of beds Of reeds, all wound with sticks, to screen From wind our little glossy heads ; And there we set, to shoot the wet, Our roof of reeds, about the pool. As deep and shoal might sleep below A shell of ice, in winter tide. We there, with tott'ring heads, would drive Our toes along the grated slide. With many a sprawl, in many a foil, Within the reeds about the pool. 92 THE REEDS ABOUT THE POOL There men would draw the water out, As diy as all their pails could dip, And then would dip their hands about, Well daub'd with mud, from toe to hip, As they might feel the slipp'ry eel, Within the reeds about the pool. And there the nightingale would sound Her note, while other birds were still. As water show'd the light the moon Might shed on stream, and mead, and hill, On boughs aloft, while rustled soft The reeds that sway'd about the pool. And still below the shady mound That leans by timber-trees in ranks. There runs the brook that up the dell Outbreaks, to come by winding banks Down here to us, to open wide A pool, with reeds about its side. 93 SUMMER WIND GUSTS How gaily fair the flow'ry land In glare of summer light would look, W'ith roaming cows to stalk by meads, Or brows of fields, beside the brook ; As wind would whirl and curl, And wildly drive about our heads White drifts of dust, in peck by peck. Or else would spring with hay in meads. And fling it up about our neck. In playing round the summer ground. As water flow'd below our feet. And show'd our shades in line and hue, A gust awoke in sudden flight. And broke them up away from view. 94 SUMMER WIND AND GUSTS In playsome whirl and curl ; And while, with darksome shade, the sun Once mark'd our shapes within the glade, The wind brought by a shading cloud On high, and hid them, shade by shade, In streaming soft, with clouds aloft. The winds may roll the thistledown By knoll or mead, in summer light, Or else may blow, in winter days. The snow against my blinded sight, With many a whirl and curl ; Or under rock or smooth-wall'd tow'r May mock my song, or sound my call. Or sway, through hours of lonesome night. My flow'rs in bloom, by ground or wall, Onstreaming soft, and blowing oft. 95 A MATCH OF QUESTIONS JOHN AND THOMAS J. Where the stream of the river may bound, All ill foam, over block upon block, Of grey stone, shall we say that the sound Is the sound of the stream or the rock ? T. Where the black-spotted bean-bloom is out. As we talk of the smell, do we mean That the sweetness that wa\-ers about Is the smell of the wind or the bean ? /. Where the sunlight that plays oft" and on, In the brook-pool, may dazzle your sight, Would you say that the bow-necked swan Is in gleams of the pool, or the light 1 96 A MATCH OF QUESTIONS T. When your head should have met, in the night, With the door, and be ready to split, Would you say, if you wished to be right, 'Twas the head or the door that was hit % J. When the heart may leap high at the sight Of the dwelling of some belov'd face. Shall we take it, that all our delight Is a charm of the face, or the place % T. When a pretty girl's father, one night. Set the dog at a youth, that would scan Her abode, should we think the poor wight Put to flight, by the dog or the man? /. Ah ! you only can turn it to fun. T. And he only could leam how to run. 97 THE STRING TOKEN 'If I am gone on, you will find a small string' — Were her words — 'on this twig of the oak by the spring.' Oh! gay are the new-leaved trees, in the spring, Down under the height, where the skylark may sing ; And welcome in summer are tree-leaves that meet On wide-spreading limbs, for a screen from the heat ; And fair in the fall-tide may flutter the few Yellow leaves of the trees tliat the sky may shine through. But welcomer far than the leaves, is the string On the twig of the oak by the si)ring. H 98 SHEEP IN THE SHADE In summer time, I took my road From stile to stile, from ground to ground, The while the cloudless sunshine glowed. On down and mead, by sun-heat browned. Where slowly round a wide-bent bow The stream wound on, with water low : In hopeful hours that glided on, Witli me in happiness now gone. And there, below the elm-tree shroud, Where shaded air might cooler swim, There lay a quickly-panting crowd Of sheep, within the shadow's rim, SHEEP IN THE SHADE That glided slowly, on and on, Till there they lay, with shadow gone. And oh ! that happy hours should glide Away so soon, with time and tide. 99 II 2 lOO CLOUDS Onriding slow, at lofty height, Were clouds in drift along the sky, Of purple blue, and ])ink, and white, In pack and pile, upreaching high, For ever changing, as they flew, Their shapes from new again to new. And some like rocks, and towers of stone. Or hills, or woods, outreaching wide ; And some like roads, with dust upblown In glittering whiteness off their side, Outshining white, again to f.ide, In figures made to be unmade. CLOUDS loi So things may meet, but never stand, In life; they may be smiles or tears: A joy in hope, and one in hand ; Some grounds of grief, and some of fears ; They may be good, or may be ill, But never long abiding still. I02 THE PRIZE WINNERS Speakers.— The Teller (7^.) of the Cleveburn winners in games at another village. The Teller's Chorus {T. C.) of two or three young men come home with him. The full Chorus (/' C.) of village hearers. 2] Old Cleveburn for ever ! Go, ringers, and turn The brown tower door on its greystonen durn, And take every man in his uphanging hanils The ropes' twisted strands E, C. What now, then ? what now ? 7'. And ring u\) a peal ; for you ought to be proud Of }0ur brothers, and sons. Come and cheer them aloud ; THE PRIZE WINNERS 103 For the men of old Cleveburn will bring from the feast Three prizes at least. T. C. Now guess for the three. T. 'Tis spryfooted Jim, and 'tis broadshoulder'd Joe, And young Willy that jumps like a winglifted crow, By the tall ashen tree. F. C. Here's a clap for each chap, then ; hurrah! T. Tliere Jim, with five others, went off with a bound From the line, on the grass ; like a hare-hunting hound, With outreaching breast ; and with looks that no face Could turn from the race. F. C. Well done, Jim! well done! I04 THE PRIZE WINNERS T. And they shot through the tree-shades, hke birds on the wing, And could hear but one gush of the rock-leaping spring ; And a rook they outstripp'd, with their flight on the ground, Turned hopeless around. T. C. And spryfooted Jim Came in quickly-panting, with red-blooming face, The first by a nose — ay a head— ay a pace, The sleekest of limb. F. C. Here's a cheer, he should hear, then ; hurrah ! T. Then on came the light-footed jumpers, to bound. For height in the air, and for length on the ground ; And they sprang with their legs to their thighs gather'd back. Till they pitch'd, falling slack. F. C. Well done, then ! well done ! THE PRIZE WINNERS 105 T. And they mark'd a long air-track, and settled as tight As a rook in a field, from a few yards of flight \ Though one would pitch backward, and one pitch ahead. And one with firm head. T. C. But, in jumping, young Bill Outstripped all the crew ; and his heel smothered low The head of a flow'r that had no other blow. From a foot by the hill. F. C. Good strokes, merry folks, then ; hurrah ! T. Then on came the boats, up the river's broad face. Each ploughing a furrow of foam, in its race, While the oarsmen fell back, and their two oars would turn To sweep back astern. io6 THE PRIZE WINNERS F. C. Well done, then ! well done ! T. Or else as the down-leaning rowers would bow, Their oars flew ahead for new water to plough ; As they floated by willow, or ivy-hung rock, Or by herd, or by flock. T. C. But broadshoulder'd Joe, With the heat on his brow, and an oar in each fist, Rush'd in with the first of the crews on the list That did row. F- C. Well done, every son ! then, hurrah ! T. So let Will leap the brook, where no bridge may be placed. And not stay to climb over bars in his haste. But over them bound, ay, and over them fly. In his shoes ankle high. F. C. Well done, ^\'ill ! well done ! THE PRIZE WINNERS 107 T. And Jim run tlie fields of old Cleveburn, a match ; For a hound in full run, or the hare he would catch, And Joe row his boat up the stream, with a weight Of the girls for a freight. T. C. Ay ; jump, run, and row : For who among us is ashamed to belong To Cleveburn, with men that are spry and are strong As Bill, Jim, and Joe] R C. It is done ; they have won ; then, hurrah \ loS WORK AFIELD HUSBAND AND WIFE H. All day below, tall trees in row, In trimming boughs, that kept me warm ; The white chips played, about my blade. In wood that baffled wind and storm ; No voice did rise, but sounds of cows, And birds' thin cries, by tangled boughs. Where leaves down-shed from beeches red, Had fallen o'er the grassy bank. Or else lay down, all withered brown, By elm-trees uj) in stately rank. WORK AFIELD 109 \V. I'm sure you must be glad enough To be in warmth, witli wind so rough ; And glad to leave the chirping birds, To hear a tongue that talks with words. W. When you shall sway at mowing hay, And elm-tree groves shall all be dried, And Stour below shall wander slow With glittering waves at eventide ; Or corn in load, on red-wheel rims, Shall grind the road, or brush tree-limbs, The while the bell in tower may tell, 'Tis time to shut your day's work out, And you may flag, and hardly drag Your labour-wearied limbs about. Why then, before the fall is come, Your little girl will hail you home. //. A}-, I shall leave the sounds of birds. To hear Poll's prattling tongue, with words. no WHEN WE THAT HAVE CHILDREN, WERE CHILDREN. Ah ! where the hedge across the hill With high-grown boughs did grow, And ashes' limbs were widely spread, With up-grown tips, above our head, And out and in, with broken brink, The brook ran on below. As wind-blown leaves were driven dry In drifts, we hastened through The grove, where frost yet lingered white. In shadows cast by winter light, To reach our homely house ere night Should hide our ])ath from view. WHEN WE THAT HAVE CHILDREN. iii As you might touch, with nimble tips Of toes, the ground, so fleet In whirhng wind, would gather strong Behind the frock you swept along The ruddy leaves, and lift them up In leaps, behind your feet. But now, again, in treading trim Our track, tlie same old way, We both walk on with slower gait, On feet that bear our full-grown weight. And leave our little children's toes To leap, and run in pla)-. 112 PENTRIDGE (i) How happy the evenings, when I, in my pride, Here walked on with you and some more at my side, Your cousin, and Harry, and Mary that died. (2) In summer with dew. (i) As Uvely as larks, down the slope of the hill. We tripp'd on to Pentridge, where down at the mill. The Stour-driven wheel is again standing still. (2) In summer with dew, where cows were at rest. And over the water, and over the grass. And over the road, that again we shall pass. Blew softly a wind from the west. (i) The house that, at Pentridge, then yielded its smoke, Was mossy 's an elm, but as firm as an oak, To shelter the glossy-haired heads of its folk, PENTRIDGE II ; (2) In summer with dew. (i) But now, where tlie wall-blossom hung, is no wall. And now, where the cattle were fed, is no stall. And now, on the ground of the house-floor, may fall In summer the dew, (2) where blossom is white, And over the rushes, and over the sedge, And over the path from the river's green edge, Blows softly the wind of the night. (i) And now, if we go to the mill down below The hill, where the slow-gliding waters yet flow. Or the fields where in boyhood I went to and fro, In summer with dew : Whereto % Of the house we shall find not a trace. To whom % Of my kindred we find not a face. For what ? For my business is far from the place. In summer with dew, (2) and swallows on wing. While on by the stile, and along by the bank. And on by the lane, with the elm-trees in rank, Blows softl}' the wind of the spring. I 114 SHELTER As lately I wound up the slope, along under The trees, where the cows lay asleep all asunder, The moon seem'd, above me, to float in cloud-streamings, As over its face they would flit in its beamings. And I went between The two woods in the gloom, When may-leaves were green, And the thorn was in bloom. The wind, as along in the lea I did wander. Blew loud over head, to sound lower out yonder, And swee]:) by the roof that might hide the dull sleeper, Or shut u]) the much-tossing head of the weeper. SHELTER 115 Till once more his sight Might behold, in the grounds, Dewy morning's red light. And should hear tlie day's sounds. And there, as the wind-blasts might sweep on, and ramble By hedges, and swing in a swoop on the bramble, And down in the mead round the ricks they were raving, While blossomy boughs, on the rocks were all waving, I joyed in the blast With its high-swelling roar. While the trees that I pass'd Were all guides to my door. 1 2 Ii6 B Y NEIGHB O URS ' D ORS As up on trees' high limbs, The western sunshine glowed, And down by river brims The wind-blown ripples flowed, There we did seek the tun Where evening smoke rose grey, While dells begun to miss the light of day. The mother-holden child, Before the gate, would spring. And crow, and struggle wild At sight of birds on wing ; And home-bound men would shout And make their game, before The girls come out in clusters at the door. BY NEIGHBOURS' DOORS 117 Then woVl a door where all Might gather to their rest, When pale-beam'd stars might fall Above the red-sky'd west, But now, from that old door We all have taken flight. And some no more can tell the day from night. iiS BETWEEN HAYMAKING AND HARVEST (JOHN AND HIS FRIEND) J. The sunsped hours, with wheehng shades, Have warm'd, for montli on month, the glades, Till now the summer wanes ; Though shadows quiver down below The boughs, that lofty elm-trees throw Across the dusty lanes ; F. and docks, With ruddy stems, have risen tall Beside the cow-forsaken stall. All free of hoofy hocks. BETWEEN HAYMAKING AND HARVEST 119 J. Along the swath with even side, The meadow flow'rs have fall'n and died, And withcr'd, rusthng dry ; And in between the hay-wale's backs, The waggon wheels have cut their tracks, With loads of hay built high, P, and bound, And cv'ry rick with peakt;d crown, Is now down-toned to yellow brown, And sunburnt, two-thirds round. J. The clouds now ride at upper height, Above the barley yellow white ; By lane and hedge ; along The fields of wheat, that ripen red. And slowly reel, with giddy head, In winil that streams full strong, F, by copse. And grass-field, where the cows lie down Among the bent-grass, ruddy brown. And thistles' purple tops. I20 BETWEEN HAYMAKING AND HARVEST J. So come while sheep, now shorn, may run Clean white, below the yellow sun, In daisy beds ; before The swinging hook may come to shear The yellow wheat with nodding ear, Come, welcome, to my door. F. I'll rest Beside the clover-whiten'd knap, With weary hand upon my lap, One day your happy guest. 121 HOME'S A NEST A Father (/''.) and a Neighbour or Chonis of Neighbours (C.) F. Here under the porch's grey bow, All my children have shot to and fro, With a sleek little head. C. Home's a nest. F. Here are windows where hills, in the blue Of the sky, so long shone to their view, And the sun's evening red— darted in, And the nooks where their toetips all sprang, And the walls and the places that rang With their high- screaming din. C. Home's a nest ; O home is a nest of the spring, Where children may grow to take wing. '22 HOMES A NEST F. As small-footed maidens here walk'd By their mother, their little tongues talk'd To her downlooking face. ^- Home's a nest. F. And the boys trotted on at my side, With the two-steps they put to one stride Of my big-footed pace :— and now each Is withdrawn from our side and our hand, And the oldest as far as the land Of old England may reach. ^- Home's a nest; A nest where the young folk are bred Up, to take on the work of the dead. F. And here, when the boys had begun At their sisters with bantering fun, How brisk was each tongue ^- Home's a nest. HOME'S A NEST I2j F. Of the girls, who could very soon find How to pay off their brothers in kind, Whether older or young, — and now each Has his own day of life, and his door, While his words and his doings no more To the others may reach. C. Home's a nest, Wliere babes may grow women and men. For the rearing of children again. F. There straight-gaited John, that can show How to handle a sword with a foe, Is a comely young man ; C. Home's a nest. F. And he swings a good blade by a hand That has hit a few blows for his land. And the merr)'-sourd Ann ; — oh ! a dear. She is wedded, and taken to turn Her own cheeses, and roll her own chum, But a good way from here. 124 HOME'S A NEST C. Home's a nest, Where our children grow up to take on Our own places, when we are all gone. F. There is dapper young Joe, that has made A good jobbing ni cattle, his trade. Is so skilful of mind, C. Home's a nest, F. That the while any bullock might blare, He would know her all round, ev'ry hair; And my Fanny, so kind — and so mild, That I often would hope she might stay At my hearth, she is taken away. Ay, my Fanny, dear child ' C. Home's a nest, All forsaken, when children have flown, Like a nest in bush-top alone. F. There is Jim, that the neighbours all round Made their pet, is now gone, and is bound To a very good trade. HOME'S A NEST 12: C. Home's a nest. F. Though his head is as thoughtless, a lout, As the ball he would hit so about, In the games that they play'd, — and he's near; But my Willie is gone from my door, And too far to come back any more. Any more to come here. C. Home's a nest, Where our children are bred to fulfil Not our own, but our Father's good will. 1 30 ON THE ROAD Still green on the limbs of the oak were the leaves, Where the sloe daily grew, with its skin-bloom of grey, rhough in fields, summer-burnt, stood the bent-grass, well brown'd. And the stubble of wheatfields was withering white, While sooner the sunlight now sank from the sight, And longer now linger'd the dim-roaded night. But bright was the daylight that dried uj) the dew. As the foam-water fiU'd the wide pool in its fall. And as I came to climb, by the chalk of the cliff. The white road full steep to tlie wa}-faring step, Where along by the hill, with a high-beating breast. Went the girl or the man to the feast in their best. ON THE ROAD 127 There the horse would prance by, with his neck a high bow, And would toss up his nose over outspringing knees ; And the ox, with sleek hide, and wuth low-swimming head ; And the sheep, little kneed, with a quickdipping nod; And a girl, with her head carried on in a proud Gait of walking, as smooth as an air-swimming cloud. I2S . MOTHER OF MOTHERS By summer and fall, and by tide upon tide, The apple-tree stems may lean lower aside, And the loosening bricks, out in orchard, may fall Cn the tree-begloom'd grass, from the long-sided wall. And the bank-sweeping water, with shock upon shock, May wash down the tongue of dry ground at the rock; And old folks, once gay And sprightly of limb. With eyes wearing dim, May now stoop on their way. There's an old leaning stone in the churclyard, bes])read With the scales of grey lichen above a green bed. MOTHER OF MOTHERS 129 With tlic name of a motlier that few or that none Now alive e'er beheld by the light of the sun — Aye, a mother of mothers, from older to young, To the mother that worded my OAvn little tongue, And found the wall sound, And apple-trees trim. And play'd on tlic brim That is wash'd from the ground. Oh ! now could she come, as we all have been told She walk'd in her time, of the comeliest mould, And show us, as what we may see in a dream, Her looks and her smiles by the twilighted stream, Where star-beams may twinkle through leaves of the oak. And tell us her tales of her old fellow folk That here have liv'd on. In joy or in woe, From sprightly to slow. And from blooming to wan. K I30 MOTHER OF MOTHERS What maid was belov'd or what woman was bride, Who droop'd in their grief or upstraighten'd with pride, Who knelt in the church, putting head beside head, Who stood to the children or mourn'd for the dead, Who milk'd at the dairy in long-shaded light, Who knelt up to thatch the round rick's i)eaked height, What mower was strong, Or what haymaker quick, Who play'd the best trick, Or who sang the best song. FALLING TILINGS IN THEIR SEASONS. In sunny time, when people piass By leafy trees and flow'ry grass, And swallows' wings, with sweeping tips, O'ershoot the streams in swinging dips, And pale-green scales of elm-trees strew The road below the dusty shoe, When bloom of May, In scales of white, j\Iay wliirl their flight By lambs at play. Then we awhile, By path and stile, May stroll a mile Where Stour may stray. K 2 £32 FALLING THINGS In fall, when ash-tree keys fly free, To whirl below their mother tree, Or winged pods, from time to time, Fly spinning off the spreading lime ; Or thistledown is rolling light. To pitch and rise in fitful flight ; When leaves offshed From yellow boughs, Pitch down by cows Of yellow red. Where Stour may wind ; We still shall find A joy of mind Above its bed. And there's a tide, when rain will fall From dripping eaves of rick or stall. Or snow-flakes, whirling down, may roll From windy bank to windless hole. FALLING THINGS 133 And tip the post with ice, and fill, With icy dust the road up hill ; When storms fly dark, Or patt'ring hail May beat the rail, Or trees' wet bark ; And then, through all That there may fall, I'll come and call By Woodcombe Park. 134 THE MORNING MOON 'TvvAS when the op'ning dawn was still, I took my lonely road, up hill, Toward the eastern sky, in gloom, Or touch'd with palest primrose bloom ; And there the moon, at morning break, Though yet unset, was gleaming weak, And fresh'ning air began to pass. All voiceless, over darksome grass, Before the sun Had yet begun To dazzle down the morning moon. THE MORNING MOON 135 By Maycreech hillock lay the cows, Below the ash-trees' nodding boughs, And water fell, from block to block Of mossy stone, down Buncleeve rock. By poplar-trees that stood, as slim 'S a feather, by the stream's green brim ; And down about the mill, that stood Half darken'd off below the wood, The rambling brook. From nook to nook, Flow'd on below the morning moon. At mother's house I made a stand, Where no one stirrVl with foot or hand ; No smoke above the chimney reek'd. No winch above the well-mouth creak'd; No casement open'd out, to catch The air below the eaves of thatch ; 136 THE MORNING MOON Nor down before her cleanly floor Had open'd back her heavy door ; And there the hatch, With fasten'd latch, Stood close, below the morning moon : And she, dear soul, so good and kind, Had holden long, in my young mind Of holy thoughts, the highest place Of honour, for her love and grace. But now my wife, to heart and sight, May seem to shine a fuller light ; And as the sun may rise to view, To dim the moon, from pale to blue, My comely bride May seem to hide . My mother, now my morning moon. But still 'tis wrong that men should slight, By day, the midnight's weaker light, THE MORNING MOON 137 That show'd them, though its gleams were dim, Where roads had risk of Hfe or limb ; And though the day my wife has made May shine in joy without a shade. So long 's my life shall hold in flight, By sunsped day and moonskied night. Still never let My heart forget My mother, now my morning moon. 138 JO V PASSING B Y When ice all melted to the sun, And left the wavy streams to run, We long'd, as summer came, to roll In river foam, o'er depth and shoal; And if we lost our loose-bow'd swing. We had a kite to pull our string ; Or, if no ball Would rise or fall With us, another joy was nigh Before our joy all pass'd us by. If leaves of trees, that wind stripp'd bare At morning, fly on evening air, We still look on for summer boughs To shade again our sunburnt brows, JOY PASSING BY 139 Where orchard blooms' white scales may fall, May hang the apple's blushing ball. New hopes come on For old ones gone, As day on day may shine on high, Until our joys all pass us by. My childhood yearn'd to reach the sj^an Of boyhood's life, and be a man ; And then I look'd, in manhood's pride. For manhood's sweetest choice, a bride ; And then to lovely children, come To make my home a dearer home. But now my mintl Can look behind For joy, and wonder, with a sigh. When all my joys have pass'd me by. Was it when once I miss'd a call To rise, and thenceforth seem'd to fall, I40 JOY PASSING BY Or when my wife to my hands left Her few bright keys, a doleful heft, Or when before the door I stood To watch a child away for good, Or where some crowd In mirth was loud, Or where I saw a mourner sigh, Where did my joy all pass me by. 141 RIGHTING UP THE CHURCH Bright was the morning and bright was the moon, Bright was the forenoon and bright was the noon, Bright was the road down the sunshiny ridge, Bright was the water and bright was the bridge; Bright in the hght were t\vo eyes in my sight. On the road that I took up to Brenbury Tow'r : The eyes at my side were my Fanny's, my bride, The day of my wedding, my wedding's gay hour ; So, if you have work in the church to make good. Here's my bit of silver to buy stone or wood. 142 RIGHTING UP THE CHURCH Here we took up our child, to be bound by a vow To his Saviour, and mark'd with the cross on his brow: While his soft little face, and two hands, were in sight, But the rest of his shape under long folds of white, And with little blue eyes, to the blue of the skies ; There blinking, look'd upward our dear little boy That his mother would call, while he'd no name at all. Her * Dear ' and her ' Pretty,' her ' Love ' and her ' Joy ': So, if you would put the old building to rights, I will pay for a stroke — you shall have my two mites. 143 JOHN TALKING ANGRIL Y OF A NEIGHBOUR BEFORE AN ECHO Who is he % I should Hke to be told ; What is he ? I should wish him to show ; Why the Brines' name will stand good lor gold, While the Browns are a set that none know. Echo. No, no. No, I'm not asham'd of my place; No, I'm not asham'd of my name ; No, I can well hold up my face. While he must hang his down for shame. Echo. For shame ! 144 JOHN TALKING ANGRILY Since now he bestrides an old mare, His lips, O with pride how they pout ! Though his feet once trudged about bare. When I had a horse to ride out. Echo. I doubt. No, he's not too safe from a fall : If a half I am told is but true, I could very soon make him look small, With a turn I could very well do. Echo. Well do. His pride would have come to an end Long ago, as it must bye-and-bye, If I had not stood for his friend As I did, and the greater oaf I. Echo. O fie ! JOHN TALKING ANGRILY 145 I may be a little foreriglit, But I never would do on the sly Little doings, not fit for the light ; You will never find me in a lie. Echo. A lie. L . 146 THE SHOP OF MEAT-WARE OR WARES TO EAT (The complaint of a housemother who keeps a huxter's shop) By selling meat-ware I shall get no meat ; I must not keep a shop of wares to eat. I have some goods, but I can hardly thhik That they are sold as quickly as they shrink ; I have some goods, but yet my little stocks Will waste away, like camphor in a box. Some hand, at whiles, steals in, and slily slips Some little thing away for some two lips. You people here don't wait for gain of trade, But take the store before the gain is made. THE SHOP OF MEAT- WARE 147 I had some eggs, and I can miss some eggs, And I don't diink they went without some legs. I had some eggs, and some have left my store. And I don't think they travell'd out of door ; I had some eggs, and eggs have gone from hence, And I don't think they brought me any pence ; I had some eggs, as yet I know full well ; I bought some eggs, but now have none to sell. L 2, 148 WALKING HOME AT NIGHI HUSBAND TO WIFE You then for me made up your mind To leave your rights of home behind. Your width of table-rim, and space Of fireside floor, your sitting-place, And all your claim to share the best, Of all the house, with all the rest. To guide for me, my house, and all My home, though small my home may be. Come, hood your head ; the wind is keen. Come this side — here : I'll be your screen. The clothes your mother put you on Are quite outworn and wholly gone, WALKING HOME AT NIGHT And now you wear, from crown to shoe, What my true love has bought you new, That now, in comely shape, is shown, My own will's gift, to deck my own ; And oil ! of all I have to share. For your true share a half is small. Come, hood your head ; wrap up, now do. Walk close to me : I'll shelter you. And now, when we go out to spend A frosty night with some old friend, And ringing clocks may tell, at last. The evening hours have fled too fast, No forked roads, to left and right, Will sunder us, for night or light ; But all my woe 's for you to feel, iVnd all my weal 's for you to know. Come hood your head. You can't see out ? I'll lead you right, you need not doubt. 149 ISO THE KNOLL (The speaker, who Hves by the knoll, talks to an old friend) O HOME, people tell us, is home be it never so homely, And Meldon 's the home where my fathers all sleep by the knoll. And there they have left me a living, in land, where, in summer, My hay, wither'd grey, awaits hauling in heap, by the knoll. And there, among bright-shining grass-blades, and bent-grass, in autumn, My cows may all lie near the waters that creep by the knoll, THE KNOLL 151 And up on the slope of the hillocks, by white -rinded ash-trees, Are ledges of grass and of thyme-beds, with sheep, by the knoll. And down on the west of my house is a rookery, rocking In trees that will ward off the winds that may sweep by the knoll. And there I have windows outlooking to blushing-skied sunset, And others that face the fresh morning's first peep, by the knoll. And though there is no place but heaven without any sorrow. And T, like my fellows in trial, may weep by the knoll. 152 THE KNOLL Still, while I fulfil, like a hireling, the day of my labour, I wish, if my wish is not sinful, to keep by the knoll. So, if you can find a day empty of work, with fine weather, And feel yourself willing to climb up the steep by the knoll, Come up, and we'll make ourselves merry once more, all together ; You'll find that your bed and your board shall be cheap by the knoll. 153 A WISH FULFILLED My longing wtshes, wand'ring wild Beyond the good I had, Would hang on other gifts, that pride Might turn from good to bad ; And in my dream, I still would hope For this green slope, where now the stream Or gives, or takes, with rambling flight, My jutting land, on left or right, By dipping downs, at dawn of day. Or de\vy dells, when daylight dies. And I have lofty trees to sway. Where western wind may roar Against their bowing heads, to play The softer round my door, 154 A WISH FULFILLED As on they pass, and chase the flight Of running hght, on shaded grass, And sweep along the shaken sedge, And rustle by the dead-leav'd hedge, By morning meads, or mid-day mound. Or mellow midnight's mounted moon. And there two cows with wide-horn'd head Now stalk, onstepping slow. And one is dun, and one is red With face as white as snow ; And there, full wide of back, 's my mare. For some long pair of legs to stride, A cunning jade, that now would find Out all my roads if I were blind, I3y winding ways, on-wand'ring wide, Or wilder waste, or wind-blown wood. A WISH FULFILLED 155 And when my work has brought me all Its earnings, day by day, And I have paid each man his call On me for lawful pay, I still can spare enough to grant My \\ife a jaunt, with weather fair. Or buy my boy a taking toy. Or make a doll my daughter's joy, With limber limbs all lopping loose Or leaning low in little laps. 1^6 AT THE DOOR The waters roll, quick-bubbling by the shoal, Or leap the rock, outfoaming in a bow. The wind blows free in gushes round the tree, Along the grove of oaks in double row, Where lovers seek the maidens' evening floor, With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight, Against the door. With iron bound, the wheel-rims roll around, And cnmch the crackling flint below their load. The gravel, trod by horses ironshod. All crackles shrill along the beaten road, AT THE DOOR 157 Where lovers come to seek, in our old place, With stip-step liglit, and tip-tap slight, The maiden's face. And oh ! how sweet's the time the lover's feet May come before the door to seek a bride, As he may stand and knock witli shaking hand, And lean to hear the sweetest voice inside ; While there a heart will leap, to hear once more The stip-step light, and tip-tap slight, Against the door. How sweet's the time when we are in our prime, With children, now our care and aye our joy, And child by child may scamper, skipping wild, Back home from school or play-games, girl or boy. And there upon the door-stone leap once more, With stip-step liglit, and tip-tap slight. Against the door. 158 AT THE DOOR Be my abode, beside some uphill road, Where people pass along, if not abide, And not a place where day may bring no face With kindly smiles, as lonesome hours may glide; But let me hear some friend, well-known before. With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight, Against the door. 159 HILL AND DELL At John's, up on Sandhills, 'tis healthy and dry, Though I may not like it, it may be — not I. Where fir-trees are spindling, with tapering tops, From leafy-leav'd fern in the cold stunted copse, And under keen gorsebrakes, all yellow in bloom, The skylark's brown nest is deep-hidden in gloom ; And high on the cliff, where no foot ever wore A path to the threshold, 's the sandmartin's door. On waterless heights, while the winds lowly sigh. On tree-climbing ivy, before the blue sky. I think I could hardly like his place as well As my own shelter'd home in the timbery dell, i6o HILL AND DELL Where rooks come to build in the high-swaying boughs, And broadheaded oaks yield a shade for the cows ; Where grey-headed withy-trees lean o'er the brook Of grey-lighted waters that whirl by the nook, And only the girls and the swans are in white, Like snow on grey moss in the midwinter's light. And wind softly drives, with a low rustling sound, By waves on the water and grass on the ground. i6i DANIEL AND JANE IN THE PUMP COURT Daniel (D). Jane (J). Jane's mother (M). Daniel comes over to Jane's, and while talking, pumps the water over the trough upon the pavement. D. Here ! if I had your trap and beast, I'd drive you all to Meldon feast. J. Oh ! very well : but did he find The pump a plaything to his mind % There's Daniel plying all his bones, In pumping wet about the stones: And who's to trample, just for sport To you, about this wat'ry court? No, I should only like to shed The water on your empty head. M 1 62 DANIEL AND JANE D. And (lid the frog, as people say, Catch cold of wetted feet, one day % J. See how his two long armbones sway, And how his peaked elbows play. D. The pattens. How about a chap And pattens, out at Oakrow knap % J. See how he chuckles. Come, tell out What you can find to grin about. D. We left our pattens, in a stroll We lately took, at Oakrow knoll. J. O ! did we ? AVell, that must be fun, With pattens out, and home with none. D. We call'd to take them, after dark. Where William Henstone, with a spark DANIEL AND JANE i6. Of manhood in his soul, must come Down Oakrow roael, to see us home. J. Now you be off. I'll souse a bowl Of buttermilk about your poll. No, I should have no call for traps, To catch the very best of chaps. Not lopping, lolling, long-ear'd louts Like you, D. O no, but Tovwiy Touts. J. {slapping his head at every strong sound.) Nor drawling, dragging, drowsy drones. D. I5ut Tom., ha ! hah ! Tom Shaklebones. M. Why lauk ! whatever is this row ? Why Jane, whatever is it now ? J. Why, Dan is at his sauce again. D. 'Tis only fun, once now and then. .M 2 J 1 64 DANIEL AND JANE J. He's here to know if we would ride To ]\Ieldon feast, this Whitsuntide. D. Ay, ]\Ieldon feast, if you can spare Your httle waggon, with the mare. M. O no, you bring us Httle gains ■\Vlien your hand shakes our old mare's reins ; Last month you beat her steaming hide, Till we all thought she must have died, Before a load of people, full Enough for three such mares to pull ; A squeezing load of girls and chaps, With some almost in others' laps. And simpering faces up as tliick As ever face by face could stick. And work'd tlie mare along as though She had but bags of down in tow. As you did whip, and whop, and whack Her panting sides and steaming back. DANIEL AND JANE 165 D. But now the load woukl be but small, Wo have no Browns at home to haul, And Jane could go with what's his name — /. Why Dan, you silly chap, for sliame ! D. There I would only take a few Of your choice, you can tell me who. M. O, well, then, nobody at all. /. Hee, heeh ! D. Hah, hah ! J. Now you sing small. D. I'll drive the Wellbums, they'll be glad To have me when I can be had. i66 HOME With the sun glowing warm at its height, And the people at work in white sleeves, And the gold-banded bee in its flight, ^^'ith the quick-flitting birds among leaves : There my two little children would run, And would reach and would roll in their fun, And would clasp in their hands. Stick or stone for their play, — In their hands that but little had grown. For their play, with a stick or a stone. HOME 167 As the sun from his high summer bow, To the west of the orchard would fall, He would leave the brown beehives in row, In the shade of the houses' grey wail. And the flowers, outshining in bloom, Some in light, and some others in gloom. To the cool of the air, And the damp of the dew, — The air from the apple-tree shades. And the dew on the grasses' green blades. And there was my orchard well-tined, With a hedge, and a steep-sided bank ; Where ivy had twin'd on the rind Of the wood-stems, and trees in high rank, To keep out the wide lipped cow. And the stiff-snouted swine that would plough Up the soft-bladed grass. By the young apple-trees — The grass that had grown a good height, And the trees that in blossom were white. 1 68 HOME O when is a father's good time, That will yield to his toil the best joy? Is it when he is spending his prime For his children, the girl and the boy ? Or when they have grown to their height. And are gone from his hearing and sight, And their mother's one voice Is left home at the door — A voice that no longer may sing, At the door that more seldom may swing ? 169 FELLOWSHIP Well here, another year, at least, We go along with blinking sight, By smoky dust arising white. Up off our road, to Lincham feast. With trudging steps of tramping feet. We souls on foot, with foot-folk meet : For we that cannot hope to ride For ease or pride, have fellowsliip. And so, good fother tried to show To folk -with hands on right or left, Down-pulIM by some great bundle's heft, And trudging weary, to or fro : I/O FELLOWSHIP That rich men are but one to ten When reckon'd off with working men, And so have less, the while the poor Have ten times more of fellowship. He thought, good man, whatever part We have to play, we all shall find That fellowship of kind with kind IMust keep us better up in heart. And why should working folk be shy Of work, Avith mostly work-folk by, While kings must live in lonesome states With none for mates in fellowship % * * Xenophon, in his Ilicro, chap, vii., ma]