BEASTS OF THE FIELD FOWLS OF THE AIR
88 BINGO
The miller's mill-dog lay at the mill-door, And his name was Little Bingo. B with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O, And his name was Little Bingo.
The miller he bought a cask of ale, And he called it right good Stingo. S with a T, T with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O, And he called it right good Stingo.
The miller he went to town one day, And he bought a wedding Ring-o! R with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O, And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
89 THE IRISH HARPER AND HIS DOG
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said--while the sorrow was big at her heart-- "Oh! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away, And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey, And he licked me for kindness--my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never return with my poor dog Tray.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
90 POOR OLD HORSE
My clothing was once of the linsey woolsey fine, My tail it grew at length, my coat did likewise shine; But now I'm growing old; my beauty does decay, My master frowns upon me; one day I heard him say, Poor old horse: poor old horse.
Once I was kept in the stable snug and warm, To keep my tender limbs from any cold or harm; But now, in open fields, I am forced for to go, In all sorts of weather, let it be hail, rain, freeze, or snow. Poor old horse: poor old horse.
Once I was fed on the very best corn and hay That ever grew in yon fields, or in yon meadows gay; But now there's no such doing can I find at all, I'm glad to pick the green sprouts that grow behind yon wall. Poor old horse: poor old horse.
"You are old, you are cold, you are deaf, dull, dumb and slow, You are not fit for anything, or in my team to draw. You have eaten all my hay, you have spoiled all my straw, So hang him, whip, stick him, to the huntsman let him go." Poor old horse: poor old horse.
My hide unto the tanners then I would freely give, My body to the hound dogs, I would rather die than live, Likewise my poor old bones that have carried you many a mile, Over hedges, ditches, brooks, bridges, likewise gates and stiles. Poor old horse: poor old horse.
91 AY ME, ALAS, HEIGH HO!
Ay me, alas, heigh ho, heigh ho! Thus doth Messalina go Up and down the house a-crying, For her monkey lies a-dying. Death, thou art too cruel To bereave her of her jewel, Or to make a seizure Of her only treasure. If her monkey die, She will sit and cry, Fie fie fie fie fie!
92 THE FLY
Once musing as I sat, And candle burning by, When all were hushed, I might discern A simple, sely fly; That flew before mine eyes, With free rejoicing heart, And here and there with wings did play, As void of pain and smart. Sometime by me she sat When she had played her fill; And ever when she rested had About she fluttered still. When I perceived her well Rejoicing in her place, "O happy fly!" (quoth I), and eke O worm in happy case! Which of us two is best? I that have reason? No: But thou that reason art without, And therefore void of woe. I live, and so dost thou: But I live all in pain, And subject am to one, alas! That makes my grief her gain. Thou livest, but feel'st no grief; No love doth thee torment. A happy thing for me it were (If God were so content) That thou with pen were placèd here, And I sat in thy place: Then I should joy as thou dost now, And thou should'st wail thy case.
BARNABE GOOGE
93 BÊTE HUMAINE
Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise, I saw the world awake; and as the ray Touched the tall grasses where they sleeping lay, Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies: With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay. I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes ... Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain And horror, at my own careless cruelty, That in an idle moment I had slain A creature whose sweet life it is to fly: Like beasts that prey with tooth and claw ... Nay, they Must slay to live, but what excuse had I?
FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG
94 THE LAMB
Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life, and bid thee feed, By the stream, and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee, Little Lamb, I'll tell thee: He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are callèd by His name. Little Lamb, God bless thee! Little Lamb, God bless thee!
WILLIAM BLAKE
95 THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain; It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain....
A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more, Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store: There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;
A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree, That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee; That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.
But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed, The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed, And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.
That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood, Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued. "What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food.
"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping head Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed; And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."
It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring, But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling, With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.
Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously: "Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?"
"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair; I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."
Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down, With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown, And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.
The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow, From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow; The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain; It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.
MARY HOWITT
96 A CHILD'S PET
When I sailed out of Baltimore With twice a thousand head of sheep, They would not eat, they would not drink, But bleated o'er the deep.
Inside the pens we crawled each day, To sort the living from the dead; And when we reached the Mersey's mouth, Had lost five hundred head.
Yet every night and day one sheep, That had no fear of man or sea, Stuck through the bars its pleading face, And it was stroked by me.
And to the sheep-men standing near, "You see," I said, "this one tame sheep: It seems a child has lost her pet, And cried herself to sleep."
So every time we passed it by, Sailing to England's slaughter-house, Eight ragged sheep-men--tramps and thieves-- Would stroke that sheep's black nose.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
97 THE SNARE
I hear a sudden cry of pain! There is a rabbit in a snare: Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where.
But I cannot tell from where He is calling out for aid; Crying on the frightened air, Making everything afraid.
Making everything afraid, Wrinkling up his little face, As he cries again for aid; And I cannot find the place!
And I cannot find the place Where his paw is in the snare: Little one! Oh, little one! I am searching everywhere.
JAMES STEPHENS
98 THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT
I and my white Pangur Have each his special art: His mind is set on hunting mice, Mine is upon my special craft.
I love to rest--better than any fame!-- With close study at my little book; White Pangur does not envy me: He loves his childish play.
When in our house we two are all alone-- A tale without tedium! We have--sport never-ending! Something to exercise our wit.
At times by feats of derring-do A mouse sticks in his net, While into my net there drops A difficult problem of hard meaning.
He points his full shining eye Against the fence of the wall: I point my clear though feeble eye Against the keenness of science.
He rejoices with quick leaps When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse: I too rejoice when I have grasped A problem difficult and dearly loved.
Though we are thus at all times, Neither hinders the other, Each of us pleased with his own art Amuses himself alone.
He is a master of the work Which every day he does: While I am at my own work To bring difficulty to clearness.
99 THE TYGER
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
WILLIAM BLAKE
100 THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN
The wanton Troopers riding by Have shot my Fawn, and it will dye. Ungentlemen! they cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive Them any Harm: alas! nor cou'd Thy Death yet do them any Good ... For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game; it seemed to bless Itself in me; how could I less Than love it? O, I cannot be Unkind to a beast that loveth me ... With sweetest Milk, and Sugar, first I it at mine own Fingers nurst; And as it grew, so every Day It waxed more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a Breath! And oft I blushed to see its Foot more soft, And white (shall I say than my Hand?) Nay, any Ladie's of the Land. It is a wond'rous Thing how fleet 'Twas on those little Silver Feet; With what a pretty skipping Grace, It oft would challenge me the Race; And when 't had left me far away, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; For it was nimbler much than Hindes, And trod as if on the Four Winds. I have a Garden of my own, But so with Roses over-grown, And Lillies, that you would it guess To be a little Wilderness; And all the Spring Time of the Year It only lovèd to be there. Among the Beds of Lillies I Have sought it oft, where it should lye; Yet could not, till it self would rise, Find it, although before mine Eyes: For, in the flaxen Lillies' Shade, It like a Bank of Lillies laid. Upon the Roses it would feed, Until its Lips ev'n seemed to bleed; And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those Roses on my Lip. But all its chief Delight was still On Roses thus itself to fill, And its pure Virgin Limbs to fold In whitest sheets of Lillies cold: Had it lived long, it would have been Lillies without, Roses within....
ANDREW MARVELL
101 OF ALL THE BIRDS
Of all the birds that I do know, Philip my sparrow hath no peer; For sit she high, or sit she low, Be she far off, or be she near, There is no bird so fair, so fine, Nor yet so fresh as this of mine; For when she once hath felt a fit, Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.
Come in a morning merrily When Philip hath been lately fed; Or in an evening soberly When Philip list to go to bed; It is a heaven to hear my Phipp, How she can chirp with merry lip, For when she once hath felt a fit, Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.
She never wanders far abroad, But is at home when I do call. If I command she lays on load[68] With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all. She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer, That I believe she hath no peer. For when she once hath felt the fit, Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.
And yet besides all this good sport My Philip can both sing and dance, With new found toys of sundry sort My Philip can both prick and prance. And if you say but: Fend cut,[69] Phipp! Lord, how the peat[70] will turn and skip! For when she once hath felt the fit, Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.
And to tell truth he were to blame-- Having so fine a bird as she, To make him all this goodly game Without suspect or jealousy-- He were a churl and knew no good, Would see her faint for lack of food, For when she once hath felt the fit, Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.
102 THE DEAD SPARROW
Tell me not of joy: there's none, Now my little Sparrow's gone: He, just as you, Would try and woo, He would chirp and flatter me; He would hang the wing awhile-- Till at length he saw me smile Lord, how sullen he would be!
He would catch a crumb, and then Sporting, let it go agen; He from my lip Would moisture sip; He would from my trencher feed; Then would hop, and then would run, And cry Philip when he'd done. O! whose heart can choose but bleed?
O how eager would he fight, And ne'er hurt, though he did bite. No morn did pass, But on my glass He would sit, and mark and do What I did--now ruffle all His feathers o'er, now let'em fall; And then straightway sleek them too.
Whence will Cupid get his darts Feathered now to pierce our hearts? A wound he may Not, Love, convey, Now this faithful bird is gone; O let mournful turtles join With loving red-breasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone!
WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT
103 ON A LITTLE BIRD
Here lies a little bird. Once all day long In Martha's house was heard His rippling song.
Tread lightly where he lies Beneath this stone With nerveless wings, closed eyes, And sweet voice gone.
MARTIN ARMSTRONG
104 ADLESTROP
Yes. I remember Adlestrop-- The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop--only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
EDWARD THOMAS
105 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
106 THE THRUSH'S SONG
Dear, dear, dear, Is the rocky glen. Far away, far away, far away The haunts of men.
Here shall we dwell in love With the lark and the dove, Cuckoo and cornrail; Feast on the banded snail, Worm and gilded fly; Drink of the crystal rill Winding adown the hill, Never to dry.
With glee, with glee, with glee, Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up, here Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily, Sing to the loved ones whose nest is near-- Qui, qui, qui, kweeu quip, Tiurru, tiurru, chipiwi, Too-tee, too-tee, chiu choo, Chirri, chirri, chooee, Quiu, qui, qui.
W. MACGILLIVRAY
107 SWEET SUFFOLK OWL
Sweet Suffolk Owl, so trimly dight With feathers, like a lady bright, Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night, Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!
Thy note that forth so freely rolls With shrill command the mouse controls; And sings a dirge for dying souls-- Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!
THOMAS VAUTOR
108 WHO? WHO?
"Who--Who--the bride will be?" "The owl she the bride shall be." The owl quoth, Again to them both, "I am sure a grim ladye; Not I the bride can be, I not the bride can be!"
109 WHEN CATS RUN HOME
When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
110 ONCE
Once I was a monarch's daughter, And sat on a lady's knee; But am now a nightly rover, Banished to the ivy tree.
Crying hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, Hoo, hoo, hoo, my feet are cold. Pity me, for here you see me Persecuted, poor, and old.
111 THE WATER-OUSEL
Where on the wrinkled stream the willows lean, And fling a very ecstasy of green Down the dim crystal; and the chestnut tree Admires her large-leaved shadow, swift and free, A water-ousel came, with such a flight As archangels might envy. Soft and bright Upon a water-kissing bough she lit, And washed and preened her silver breast, though it Was dazzling fair before. Then twittering She sang, and made obeisance to the Spring. And in the wavering amber at her feet Her silent shadow, with obedience meet, Made her quick, imitative curtsies, too. Maybe she dreamed a nest, so safe and dear, Where the keen spray leaps whitely to the weir; And smooth, warm eggs that hold a mystery; And stirrings of life and twitterings, that she Is passionately glad of; and a breast As silver-white as hers, which without rest Or languor, borne by spread wings swift and strong, Shall fly upon her service all day long. She hears a presage in the ancient thunder Of the silken fall, and her small soul in wonder Makes preparation as she deems most right, Repurifying what before was white Against the day when, like a beautiful dream, Two little ousels shall fly with her down stream, And even the poor, dumb shadow-bird shall flit With two small shadows following after it.
MARY WEBB
112 L'OISEAU BLEU
The lake lay blue below the hill. O'er it, as I looked, there flew Across the waters, cold and still, A bird whose wings were palest blue.
The sky above was blue at last, The sky beneath me blue in blue. A moment, ere the bird had passed, It caught his image as he flew.
MARY COLERIDGE
113 I HAD A DOVE
I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you die-- Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why? You lived alone in the forest-tree, Why, pretty thing I would you not live with me? I kissed you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
JOHN KEATS
114 PHILOMEL
As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn Leaned her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the doleful'st ditty. That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry; Tereu, tereu! by and by; That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapped in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me.
RICHARD BARNFIELD
115 A SPARROW-HAWK
A sparhawk proud did hold in wicked jail Music's sweet chorister, the Nightingale; To whom with sighs she said: "O set me free, And in my song I'll praise no bird but thee." The Hawk replied: "I will not lose my diet To let a thousand such enjoy their quiet."
116 THE EAGLE
He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
117 THE TWA CORBIES
As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane, And tane unto the tither say:-- "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
"--In behint yon auld fail dyke,[71] I wat there lies a new-slain Knight; And naebody kens that he lies there But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
"His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may mak our dinner sweet.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een. Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair We'll theek[72] our nest when it grows bare.
"Mony a one for him maks mane, But nane sall ken where he is gane. O'er his white banes, where they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair."
118 IN THE WILDERNESS
Christ of His gentleness Thirsting and hungering Walked in the wilderness; Soft words of grace He spoke Unto lost desert-folk That listened wondering. He heard the bitterns call From ruined palace-wall, Answered them brotherly. He held communion With the she-pelican Of lonely piety. Basilisk, cockatrice, Flocked to His homilies, With mail of dread device, With monstrous barbèd stings, With eager dragon-eyes; Great rats on leather wings And poor blind broken things, Foul in their miseries. And ever with Him went, Of all His wanderings Comrade, with ragged coat, Gaunt ribs--poor innocent-- Bleeding foot, burning throat, The guileless old scape-goat; For forty nights and days Followed in Jesus' ways, Sure guard behind Him kept, Tears like a lover wept.
ROBERT GRAVES
119 STUPIDITY STREET
I saw with open eyes Singing birds sweet Sold in the shops For the people to eat, Sold in the shops of Stupidity Street.
I saw in vision The worm in the wheat, And in the shops nothing For people to eat; Nothing for sale in Stupidity Street.
RALPH HODGSON
120 COME WARY ONE
"'Come wary one, come slender feet, Come pretty bird and sing to me, I have a cage of wizard wood With perch of ebony; Come pretty bird, there's dainty food, There's cherry, plum, and strawberry, In my red cage, my wizard cage, The cage I made for thee.'
"The bird flew down, the bird flew in, The cherries they were dried and dead, She tied him with a silken skein To a perch of molten lead; And first most dire he did complain, And next he sulky sad did fall, Chained to his perch, his burning perch, He would not sing at all.
"There came an elf, a silent elf, A silver wand hung by his side, And when that wand lay on the door, The door did open wide. The pretty bird with beak he tore That silken skein, then out flew he, From that red cage, that greedy cage, That cage of wizardry."
RUTH MANNING-SANDERS
121 UPON THE LARK AND THE FOWLER
Thou simple Bird what mak'st thou here to play? Look, there's the Fowler, prethee come away. Dost not behold the Net? Look there 'tis spread, Venture a little further thou art dead. Is there not room enough in all the Field For thee to play in, but thou needs must yield To the deceitful glitt'ring of a Glass, Placed betwixt Nets to bring thy death to pass? Bird, if thou art so much for dazling light, Look, there's the Sun above thee, dart upright. Thy nature is to soar up to the Sky, Why wilt thou come down to the nets, and dye? Take no heed to the Fowler's tempting Call; This whistle he enchanteth Birds withal. Or if thou seest a live Bird in his net, Believe she's there 'cause thence she cannot get. Look how he tempteth thee with his Decoy, That he may rob thee of thy Life, thy Joy: Come, prethee Bird, I prethee come away, Why should this net thee take, when 'scape thou may? Hadst thou not Wings, or were thy feathers pulled, Or wast thou blind or fast asleep wer't lulled: The case would somewhat alter, but for thee, Thy eyes are ope, and thou hast Wings to see. Remember that thy Song is in thy Rise, Not in thy Fall, Earth's not thy Paradise. Keep up aloft then, let thy circuits be Above, where Birds from Fowlers nets are free....
JOHN BUNYAN
122 THE BIRDS
He. Where thou dwellest, in what Grove, Tell me Fair One, tell me Love; thou thy charming nest dost build, O thou pride of every field!
She. Yonder stands a lonely tree, There I live and mourn for thee; Morning drinks my silent tear, And evening winds my sorrow bear.
He. O thou summer's harmony, I have lived and mourned for thee; Each day I mourn along the wood, And night hath heard my sorrows loud.
She. Dost thou truly long for me? And am I thus sweet to thee? Sorrow now is at an end, O my Lover and my Friend!
He. Come, on wings of joy we'll fly To where my bower hangs on high; Come, and make thy calm retreat Among green leaves and blossoms sweet.
WILLIAM BLAKE
123 TWO PEWITS
Under the after-sunset sky Two pewits sport and cry, More white than is the moon on high Riding the dark surge silently; More black than earth. Their cry Is the one sound under the sky. They alone move, now low, now high, And merrily they cry To the mischievous Spring sky, Plunging earthward, tossing high, Over the ghost who wonders why So merrily they cry and fly, Nor choose 'twixt earth and sky, While the moon's quarter silently Rides, and earth rests as silently.
EDWARD THOMAS
124 TO A WATERFOWL
Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone: the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
125 MIDNIGHT
... Midnight was come, when every vital thing With sweet sound sleep their weary limbs did rest, The beasts were still, the little birds that sing Now sweetly slept, beside their mother's breast, The old and all were shrouded in their nest: The waters calm, the cruel seas did cease, The woods, and fields, and all things held their peace.
The golden stars were whirled amid their race, And on the earth did laugh with twinkling light, When each thing, nestled in his resting-place, Forgat day's pain with pleasure of the night: The hare had not the greedy hounds in sight, The fearful deer of death stood not in doubt, The partridge dreamed not of the falcon's foot.
The ugly bear now minded not the stake, Nor how the cruel mastives do him tear; The stag lay still unrousèd from the brake; The foamy boar feared not the hunter's spear: All things were still, in desert, bush, and brere:[73] With quiet heart, now from their travails ceased, Soundly they slept in midst of all their rest.
THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST
ELPHIN : OUPH : FAY.
126 COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS
(Ariel singing) Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Curtsied when you have, and kist, The wilde waves whist: Foote it featly heere, and there, And sweete Sprights the burthen beare. Harke, harke, bowgh wawgh: The watch-dogges barke, bowgh wawgh. Hark, hark, I heare, The straine of strutting Chanticlere Cry Cockadidle-dowe.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
127 THE ELVES' DANCE
Round about, round about In a fair ring-a, Thus we dance, thus we dance And thus we sing-a, Trip and go, to and fro Over this green-a, All about, in and out, For our brave Queen-a.
128 BY THE MOON
By the Moone we sport and play, With the night begins our day: As we daunce the deaw doth fall, Trip it little urchins all: Lightly as the little Bee, Two by two, and three by three: And about go we, and about go wee.
"I do come about the coppes, Leaping upon flowers toppes: Then I get upon a flie, Shee carries me above the skie: And trip and goe."
"When a deawe drop falleth downe, And doth light upon my crowne, Then I shake my head and skip, And about I trip. Two by two, and three by three: And about go we, and about go wee."
THOMAS RAVENSCROFT
129 FOR A MOCKING VOICE
Who calls? Who calls? Who? Did you call? Did you?-- I call! I call! I! Follow where I fly.-- Where? O where? O where? On Earth or in the Air?-- Where you come, I'm gone! Where you fly, I've flown!-- Stay! ah, stay! ah, stay, Pretty Elf, and play! Tell me where you are-- Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
ELEANOR FARJEON
130 WHERE THE BEE SUCKS
Where the Bee sucks, there suck I, In a Cowslip's bell I lie, There I cowch when Owles do crie; On the Batt's back I doe flie After Sommer merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the Bow.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
131 ECHO
How see you Echo? When she calls I see Her pale face looking down through some great tree, Whose world of green is like a moving sea, That shells re-echo. I see her with a white face like a mask, That vanishes to come again; damask Her cheek, but deeply pale, Her eyes are green, With a silver sheen, And she mocks the thing you ask. "O Echo!" (hear the children calling) "are you there?"... "Where?"...
When the wind blows over the hill, She hides with a vagrant will, And call you may loud, and call you may long, She lays finger on lip when the winds are strong, And for all your pains she is still. But when young plants spring, and the chiff-chaffs sing, And the scarlet capped woodpecker flies through the vale, She is out all day, Through the fragrant May, To babble and tattle her Yea and Nay. "O Echo!" (still the children call) "Where are you? where?"... "Air...."
VISCOUNTESS GREY
132 THE SPLENDOUR FALLS
The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
133 THE FAIRIES
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.
High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As to dig one up in spite, He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
134 OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH
Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?
Give them me.
No.
Give them me. Give them me.
No.
Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them.
Goblin, why do you love them so?
They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
Hush, I stole them out of the moon.
Give me your beads, I want them.
No.
I will howl in a deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them.
No.
HAROLD MONRO
135 THE FAIRY THORN
"Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel; For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep: Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland reel Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green; And Anna laid the rock[74] and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four, I ween.
They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare; The heavy-sliding stream in its sleep song they leave, And the crags in the ghostly air.
And linking hand and hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way, Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.
The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee; The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey and dim In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row, Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go, Oh, never carolled bird like them!
But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze That drinks away their voices in echoless repose, And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes, And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw, Are hushed the maidens' voices, as cowering down they lie In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath, And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn between, A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe, And they sink down together on the green.
They sink together silent, and stealing side to side, They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair. Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed, Soft o'er their bosom's beating--the only human sound-- They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, Like a river in the air, gliding round.
Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say, But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three-- For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws; They feel her sliding arms from their trancèd arms unfold, But they dare not look to see the cause:
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze; And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of Night the Earth has rolled her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below; When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning-tide, The maidens' trance dissolveth so.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain-- They pined away and died within the year and day, And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.
SAMUEL FERGUSON
136 THE QUEEN OF ELFLAND
True Thomas lay oer yond grassy bank, And he beheld a ladie gay, A ladie that was brisk and bold, Come riding oer the fernie brae.
Her skirt was of the grass-green silk, Her mantel of the velvet fine, At ilka tett of her horse's mane Hung fifty silver bells and nine.
True Thomas he took off his hat, And bowed him low down till his knee: "All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven! For your peer on earth I never did see."
"O no, O no, True Thomas," she says, "That name does not belong to me; I am but the queen of fair Elfland, And I'm come here for to visit thee....
"But ye maun go wi me now, Thomas, True Thomas, ye maun go wi me, For ye maun serve me seven years, Thro weel or wae as may chance to be.
"Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said, "Then harp and carp alang wi me; But it will be seven years and a day Till ye win back to yere ain countrie."
She turned about her milk-white steed, And took True Thomas up behind, And aye wheneer her bridle rang, The steed flew swifter than the wind.
For forty days and forty nights He wade thro red blude to the knee, And he saw neither sun nor moon, But heard the roaring of the sea.
O they rade on, and further on, Until they came to a garden green: "Light down, light down, ye ladie free, Some of that fruit let me pull to thee."
"O no, O no, True Thomas," she says, "That fruit maun not be touched by thee, For a' the plagues that are in hell Light on the fruit of this countrie.
"But I have a loaf here in my lap, Likewise a bottle of claret wine, And now ere we go farther on, We'll rest a while, and ye may dine."
When he had eaten and drunk his fill:-- "Lay down your head upon my knee," The lady sayd, "ere we climb yon hill And I will show you fairlies three.
"O see not ye yon narrow road, So thick beset wi thorns and briers? That is the path of righteousness, Tho after it but few enquires.
"And see not ye that braid braid road, That lies across yon lillie leven? That is the path of wickedness, Tho some call it the road to heaven.
"And see not ye that bonny road, Which winds about the fernie brae? That is the road to fair Elfland, Where you and I this night maun gae
"But Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, Whatever you may hear or see, For gin ae word you should chance to speak, You will neer get back to your ain countrie."
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair of shoes of velvet green, And till seven years were past and gone True Thomas on earth was never seen.
137 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
O, what can ail thee, knight at arms, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
O, what can ail thee, knight at arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.
I see a lilly on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said-- I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed and sighed full sore: And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed, ah woe betide, The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cry'd--"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
JOHN KEATS
138 SABRINA
"Sabrina fair Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of Lillies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair, Listen for dear honour's sake, Goddess of the silver lake, Listen and save!... By all the Nymphs that nightly dance Upon thy streams with wily glance, Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head From thy coral-pav'n bed, And bridle in thy headlong wave, Till thou our summons answered have. Listen and save!"
"By the rushy-fringèd bank, Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank, My sliding Chariot stayes, Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green That in the channell strayes, Whilst from off the waters fleet Thus I set my printless feet O're the Cowslips Velvet head, That bends not as I tread, Gentle swain at thy request I am here."
JOHN MILTON
139 NOW THE HUNGRY LION ROARS
"Now the hungry Lyon rores, And the Wolfe behowls the Moone: Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary taske fordone. Now the wasted brands doe glow, Whil'st the scritch-owle scritching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shrowd. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his spright, In the Church-way paths to glide. And we Fairies, that do runne By the triple Hecate's teame, From the presence of the Sunne, Following darknesse like a dreame, Now are frollicke; not a Mouse Shall disturbe this hallowed house. I am sent with broome before, To sweep the dust behinde the doore."
"Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsie fier; Everie Elfe and Fairie spright Hop as light as bird from brier!..."
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
140 THE FAIRIES FEAST
... Awn. Who feasts tonight?
Some Elves. Prince Olbin is truth-plight To Rosalind, daughter of the Faery Queen.
Other Elves. She's a mannikin changeling; her name shows it.
Other Elves. We have heard tell; that she as dream is fair.
Awn. I've heard old Paigle say, fays gave for her To humans, in the cradle, Moonsheen bright.
Other Elves. And Eglantine should wedded be this night, To Ivytwine, in the laughing full moon.
Moth. I was there and saw it: on hoar roots, All gnarled and knotty, of an antique oak, ... Crowned, some with plighted frets of violets sweet; Other, with flower-cups many-hewed, had dight Their locks of gold; the gentle faeries sate: All in their watchet cloaks: were dainty mats Spread under them, of dwarve-wives rushen work: And primroses were strewed before their feet. They at banquet sate, from dim of afternoon ...
(Enter more elves running.)
Howt. Whence come ye foothot?
One of the new-come Elves. O Awn, O Howt! Not past a league from hence, lies close-cropped plot, Where purple milkworts blow, which conies haunt, Amidst the windy heath. We saw gnomes dance There; that not bigger been than harvest mice. Some of their heads were deckt, as seemed to us, With moonbeams bright: and those tonight hold feast: Though in them there none utterance is of speech.
Awn. Be those our mothers' cousins, dainty of grace: But seld now, in a moonlight, are they seen. They live not longer than do humble been.
Elves. We saw of living herb, intressed with moss, Their small wrought cabins open on the grass.
Awn. Other, in gossamer bowers, wonne underclod.
Elves. And each gnome held in hand a looking glass; Wherein he keeked, and kissed oft the Moons face.
Awn. Are they a faery offspring, without sex, Of the stars' rays.
Elves. They'd wings on their flit feet; That seemed, in their oft shining, glancing drops Of rain, which beat on bosom of the grass: Wherein be some congealed as adamant. We stooped to gaze (a neighbour tussock hidus,) On sight so fair: their beauty being such, That seemed us it all living thought did pass. Yet were we spied! for looked down full upon us,
Disclosing then murk skies, Moons clear still face. In that they shrunk back, and clapped tó their doors....
CHARLES M. DOUGHTY
SUMMER : GREENWOOD SOLITUDE
141 THE HUNT IS UP
The hunt is up, the hunt is up, And it is well nigh day; And Harry our King is gone hunting To bring his deer to bay.
The east is bright with morning light, And darkness it is fled; And the merry horn wakes up the morn To leave his idle bed.
Behold the skies with golden dyes Are glowing all around; The grass is green, and so are the treen All laughing at the sound.
The horses snort to be at sport, The dogs are running free, The woods rejoice at the merry noise Of Hey tantara tee ree!
The sun is glad to see us clad All in our lusty green, And smiles in the sky as he riseth high To see and to be seen.
Awake all men, I say again, Be merry as you may; For Harry our King is gone hunting, To bring his deer to bay.
142 THE CHEERFUL HORN
The cheerful arn he blaws in the marn, And we'll a-'untin' goo; The cheerful arn he blaws in the marn, And we'll a-'untin' goo, And we'll a-'untin' goo, And we'll a-'untin' goo ... Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy, And I'll zing Tally ho! Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy, And I'll zing Tally ho!
The vox jumps awer the 'edge zo 'igh, An' the 'ouns all atter un goo; Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy, And I'll zing Tally ho!
Then never despoise the soldjer lod, Thof 'is ztaition be boot low; Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy, And I'll zing Tally ho!
Then push about the coop, my bwoys, An' we will wumwards goo, Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy, And I'll zing Tally ho!
If you áx me the zénze of this zóng vur to téll, Or the reäzon vur to zhow; Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo, Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo: Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy, And I'll zing Tally ho! Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy, And I'll zing Tally ho!
143 JOHN PEEL
D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay? D'ye ken John Peel at the break of the day? D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away, With his hounds and his horn in the morning? 'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed, And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led, For Peel's View-hollo would awaken the dead, Or a fox from his lair in the morning.
D'ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death? D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith? D'ye ken that a fox with his last breath Cursed them all as he died in the morning?
Yes, I ken John Peel and Ruby too Ranter and Royal and Bellman as true; From the drag to the chase, from the chase to a view, From a view to the death in the morning.
And I've followed John Peel both often and far O'er the rasper-fence and the gate and the bar, From Low Denton Holme up to Scratchmere Scar, When we vied for the brush in the morning.
Then here's to John Peel with my heart and soul, Come fill--fill to him another strong bowl: And we'll follow John Peel through fair and through foul, While we're waked by his horn in the morning. 'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed, And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led, For Peel's View-hollo would awaken the dead Or a fox from his lair in the morning.
JOHN WOODCOCK GRAVES
144 THE SCHOOLBOY
I love to rise in a summer morn When the birds sing on every tree; The distant huntsman winds his horn, And the skylark sings with me. O! what sweet company.
But to go to school in a summer morn, O! it drives all joy away; Under a cruel eye outworn, The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay.
Ah! then at times I drooping sit, And spend many an anxious hour, Nor in my book can I take delight, Nor sit in learning's bower, Worn thro' with the dreary shower.
How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring?
O! father and mother, if buds are nipped, And blossoms blown away, And if the tender plants are stripped Of their joy in the springing day, By sorrow and care's dismay,
How shall the summer arise in joy, Or the summer fruits appear? Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, Or bless the mellowing year, When the blasts of winter appear?
WILLIAM BLAKE
145 A BOY'S SONG
Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the grey trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from their play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
JAMES HOGG
146 MARKET DAY
Who'll walk the fields with us to town, In an old coat and a faded gown? We take our roots and country sweets, Where high walls shade the steep old streets, And golden bells and silver chimes Ring up and down the sleepy times. The morning mountains smoke like fires; The sun spreads out his shining wires; The mower in the half-mown lezza Sips his tea and takes his pleasure. Along the lane slow waggons amble. The sad-eyed calves awake and gamble; The foal that lay so sorrowful Is playing in the grasses cool. By slanting ways, in slanting sun, Through startled lapwings now we run Along the pale green hazel-path, Through April's lingering aftermath Of lady's smock and lady's slipper; We stay to watch a nesting dipper. The rabbits eye us while we pass, Out of the sorrel-crimson grass; The blackbird sings, without a fear, Where honeysuckle horns blow clear-- Cool ivory stained with true vermilion, And here, within a silk pavilion, Small caterpillars lie at ease. The endless shadows of the trees Are painted purple and cobalt; Grandiloquent, the rook-files halt, Each one aware of you and me, And full of conscious dignity. Our shoes are golden as we pass With pollen from the pansied grass. Beneath an elder--set anew With large clean plates to catch the dew-- On fine white cheese and bread we dine. The clear brook-water tastes like wine. If all folk lived with labour sweet Of their own busy hands and feet, Such marketing, it seems to me, Would make an end of poverty.
MARY WEBB
147 UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE
Under the greenewood tree, Who loves to lye with me, And turne his merrie Note Unto the sweet Bird's throte: Come hither, come hither, come hither, Heere shall he see no enemie But Winter and rough Weather.
Who doth ambition shunne And loves to live i' the Sunne, Seeking the food he eates And pleased with what he gets: Come hither, come hither, come hither, Here shall he see no enemie But Winter and rough Weather.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
148 IN SUMMER
In somer when the shawes be sheyne,[75] And leves be large and long, Hit[76] is full merry in feyre foreste To here the foulys[77] song.
To se the dere draw to the dale And leve the hillės hee, And shadow him in the levės grene Under the green-wode tree.
Hit befell on Whitsontide Early in a May mornyng, The Sonne up fairė gan shyne, And the briddis mery gan syng.
"This is a mery mornyng," said Litulle Johne, "By Hym that dyed on tree; A more mery man than I am one Lyves not in Christiantė.
"Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster," Litulle Johne can say, "And thank hit is a fulle fayre tyme In a mornynge of May."
149 LUBBER BREEZE
The four sails of the mill Like stocks stand still; Their lantern-length is white On blue more bright.
Unruffled is the mead, Where lambkins feed And sheep and cattle browse And donkeys drowse.
Never the least breeze will The wet thumb chill That the anxious miller lifts, Till the vane shifts.
The breeze in the great flour-bin Is snug tucked in; The lubber, while rats thieve, Laughs in his sleeve.
T. STURGE MOORE
150 A SUMMER'S DAY
"The ample heaven of fabrik sure, In cleannes dois surpas The chrystall and the silver pure, Or clearest poleist[78] glas.
The shadow of the earth anon Removes and drawės by, Sine in the east, when it is gon, Appears a clearer sky.
Quhilk sune[79] perceives the little larks, The lapwing and the snyp, And tune their sangs, like Nature's clarks Our medow, mure and stryp.[80]
The time sa tranquil is and still, That na where sall ye find, Saife on ane high and barren hill, Ane aire of peeping wind.
All trees and simples[81] great and small, That balmie leife do beir, Nor thay were painted on a wall, Na mair they move or steir[82]...."
ALEXANDER HUME
151 LEISURE
What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
152 THE HAPPY COUNTRYMAN
Who can live in heart so glad As the merry country lad? Who upon a fair green balk[83] May at pleasure sit and walk, And amid the azure skies See the morning sun arise,-- While he hears in every spring How the birds do chirp and sing: Or before the hounds in cry See the hare go stealing by: Or along the shallow brook, Angling with a baited hook, See the fishes leap and play In a blessèd sunny day: Or to hear the partridge call, Till she have her covey all: Or to see the subtle fox, How the villain plies the box: After feeding on his prey, How he closely sneaks away, Through the hedge and down the furrow Till he gets into his burrow: Then the bee to gather honey, And the little black-haired coney, On a bank for sunny place, With her forefeet wash her face: Are not these, with thousands moe[84] Than the courts of kings do know, The true pleasing spirit's sights That may breed true love's delights?...
NICHOLAS BRETON
153 "O FOR A BOOKE"
O for a Booke and a shadie nooke, eyther in-a-doore or out; With the grene leaves whispering overhede, or the Streete cryes all about. Where I maie Reade all at my ease, both of the Newe and Olde; For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke, is better to me than Golde.
154 GREEN BROOM
There was an old man lived out in the wood, His trade was a-cutting of Broom, green Broom; He had but one son without thrift, without good, Who lay in his bed till 'twas noon bright noon.
The old man awoke, one morning and spoke, He swore he would fire the room, that room, If his John would not rise and open his eyes, And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom.
So Johnny arose, and he slipped on his clothes, And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom, He sharpened his knives, for once he contrives To cut a great bundle of Broom, green Broom.
When Johnny passed under a lady's fine house, Passed under a lady's fine room, fine room, She called to her maid, "Go fetch me," she said, "Go fetch me the boy that sells Broom, green Broom."
When Johnny came in to the lady's fine house, And stood in the lady's fine room, fine room; "Young Johnny," she said, "Will you give up your trade, And marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?"
Johnny gave his consent, and to church they both went, And he wedded the lady in bloom, full bloom, At market and fair, all folks do declare, There is none like the Boy that sold Broom, green Broom.
155 THE TWELVE OXEN
I have twelfė oxen that be faire and brown, And they go a grasing down by the town. With hey! with how! with hoy! Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?
I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and white, And they go a grasing down by the dyke. With hey! with how! with hoy! Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?
I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and blak, And they go a grasing down by the lake. With hey! with how! with hoy! Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?
I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and rede, And they go a grasing down by the mede With hey! with how! with hoy! Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?
156 LAVENDER'S BLUE
Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green, When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so? 'Twas mine one heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.
Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work, Some with a rake, dilly dilly, some with a fork, Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to thresh corn, Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm....
157 THE GARDEN
... What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets[85] and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light....
Such was the happy Garden-state While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in Paradise alone....
ANDREW MARVELL
158 CHERRY-RIPE
Cherrie Ripe, Ripe, Ripe, I cry, Full and faire ones; come and buy: If so be you ask me where They doe grow? I answer, There, Where my Julia's lips doe smile; There's the Land, or Cherrie Ile: Whose Plantations fully show All the yeare, where Cherries grow.
ROBERT HERRICK
159 CHERRY-RIPE
There is a Garden in her face Where Roses and white Lillies grow; A heav'nly paradice is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow. There Cherries grow, which none may buy, Till Cherry Ripe themselves doe cry.
Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose Of Orient Pearle a double row, Which when her lovely laughter showes, They look like Rose-buds filled with snow. Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy, Till Cherry Ripe themselves doe cry.
Her Eyes like Angels watch them still; Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand, Threat'ning with piercing frownes to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred Cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry Ripe themselves doe cry.
THOMAS CAMPION
160 SONG
What is there hid in the heart of a rose, Mother-mine? Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows? A Man that died on a lonely hill May tell you, perhaps, but none other will, Little child.
What does it take to make a rose, Mother-mine? The God that died to make it knows It takes the world's eternal wars, It takes the moon and all the stars, It takes the might of heaven and hell And the everlasting Love as well, Little child.
ALFRED NOYES
161 THE MYSTERY
He came and took me by the hand Up to a red rose tree, He kept His meaning to Himself But gave a rose to me. I did not pray Him to lay bare The mystery to me, Enough the rose was Heaven to smell, And His own face to see.
RALPH HODGSON
162 THE ROSE
A Rose, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known:
The maidens danced about it morn and noon, And learnèd bards of it their ditties made; The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade.
But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew; The maids and fairies both were kept away, And in a drought the caterpillars threw Themselves upon the bud and every spray.
God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies.
WILLIAM BROWNE
163 SONG
Ask me no more, where Jove bestows When June is past the fading rose; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more, whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more, whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more, where those stars light[86] That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit and there Fixèd become as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west The Phœnix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.
THOMAS CAREW
164 THE BOWER OF BLISS
(The "daintie Paradise of the Enchauntresse" whereinto the Palmer brought Sir Guyon.)
... And in the midst of all, a fountaine stood, Of richest substaunce that on earth might bee, So pure and shiny, that the silver flood Through every channell running, one might see; Most goodly it with pure imageree Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, Of which some seemed with lively jollitee To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Whiles others did them selves embay in liquid joyes.
And over all, of purest gold was spred A trayle of yvie in his native hew: For the rich mettall was so colouréd, That wight, who did not well-advised it vew, Would surely deeme it to be yvie treu. Lowe his lascivious arms adown did creepe, That themselves dipping in the silver dew, Their fleecy flowres they tenderly did steepe, Which drops of Cristall seemd for wantonnes to weepe.
Infinit streames continually did well Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see, The which into an ample laver fell, And shortly grew to so great quantitie, That like a little lake it seemed to bee; Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight, That through the waves one might the bottom see, All paved beneath with Jaspar shining bright That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright.
And all the margent round about was set With shady lawrell-trees, thence to defend The sunny beames, which on the billows bet, And those which therein bathèd, mote[87] offend....
Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound, Of all that mote delight a daintie eare, Such as att once might not on living ground, Save in this Paradise, be heard elswhere: Right hard it was, for wight, which did it heare, To read, what manner musicke that mote bee: For all that pleasing is to living care, Was there consorted in one harmonie, Birdes, voyces, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.
The joyous birdes, shrouded in cheareful shade, Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet; Th' Angelicall soft trembling voyces made To th' instruments divine respondence meet: The silver sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters fall: The waters fall with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call: The gentle warbling wind low answerèd to all.
EDMUND SPENSER
165 SMALL FOUNTAINS
... Jarring the air with rumour cool, Small fountains played into a pool With sound as soft as the barley's hiss When its beard just sprouting is; Whence a young stream, that trod on moss, Prettily rimpled the court across. And in the pool's clear idleness, Moving like dreams through happiness, Shoals of small bright fishes were; In and out weed-thickets bent Perch and carp, and sauntering went With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare; Or on a lotus leaf would crawl, A brinded loach to bask and sprawl, Tasting the warm sun ere it dipt Into the water; but quick as fear Back his shining brown head slipt To crouch on the gravel of his lair, Where the cooled sunbeams broke in wrack, Spilt shattered gold about his back....
LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE
166 THE INVITATION, TO JANE
Best and brightest, come away! Fairer far than this fair Day, Which, like thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough Year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born; Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, It kissed the forehead of the Earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free. And waked to music all their fountains, And breathed upon the frozen mountains, And like a prophetess of May Strewed flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, dear....
Radiant sister of the Day, Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, And the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green and ivy dun Round stems that never kiss the sun; Where the lawns and pastures be, And the sand-hills of the sea;-- Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets, The wind-flowers, and violets, Which yet join not scent to hue, Crown the pale year weak and new; When the night is left behind In the deep east, dun and blind, And the blue noon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet, And all things seem only one In the universal sun.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
167 THE RECOLLECTION
... We wandered to the Pine Forest That skirts the Ocean's foam; The lightest wind was in its nest, The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the bosom of the deep The smile of Heaven lay; It seemed as if the hour were one Sent from beyond the skies, Which scattered from above the sun A light of Paradise!
We paused amid the pines that stood The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude As serpents interlaced, And soothed by every azure breath, That under heaven is blown, To harmonies and hues beneath, As tender as its own: Now all the tree-tops lay asleep Like green waves on the sea, As still as in the silent deep The ocean woods may be.
How calm it was!--The silence there By such a chain was bound That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller with her sound The inviolable quietness; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. There seemed, from the remotest seat Of the white mountain waste To the soft flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced,-- A spirit interfused around, A thrilling, silent life-- To momentary peace it bound Our mortal nature's strife;-- And still I felt the centre of The magic circle there Was one fair form that filled with love The lifeless atmosphere....
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
168 THE GOAT PATHS
The crooked paths go every way Upon the hill--they wind about Through the heather in and out Of the quiet sunniness. And there the goats, day after day, Stray in sunny quietness, Cropping here and cropping there, As they pause and turn and pass, Now a bit of heather spray, Now a mouthful of the grass.
In the deeper sunniness, In the place where nothing stirs, Quietly in quietness, In the quiet of the furze, For a time they come and lie Staring on the roving sky.
If you approach they run away, They leap and stare, away they bound, With a sudden angry sound, To the sunny quietude; Crouching down where nothing stirs In the silence of the furze, Couching down again to brood In the sunny solitude.
If I were as wise as they, I would stray apart and brood, I would beat a hidden way Through the quiet heather spray To a sunny solitude;
And should you come I'd run away, I would make an angry sound, I would stare and turn and bound To the deeper quietude, To the place where nothing stirs In the silence of the furze.
In that airy quietness I would think as long as they; Through the quiet sunniness I would stray away to brood By a hidden beaten way In a sunny solitude, I would think until I found Something I can never find, Something lying on the ground, In the bottom of my mind.
JAMES STEPHENS
169 UNDER A WILTSHIRE APPLE TREE
Some folks as can afford, So I've heard say, Set up a sort of cross Right in the garden way To mind 'em of the Lord. But I, when I do see Thik[88] apple tree An' stoopin' limb All spread wi' moss, I think of Him And how He talks wi' me.
I think of God And how He trod That garden long ago; He walked, I reckon, to and fro And then sat down Upon the groun' Or some low limb What suited Him, Such as you see On many a tree, And on thik very one Where I at set o' sun Do sit and talk wi' He.
And, mornings, too, I rise and come An' sit down where the branch be low; A bird do sing, a bee do hum, The flowers in the border blow, And all my heart's so glad and clear As pools be when the sun do peer, As pools a-laughing in the light When mornin' air is swep' an' bright, As pools what got all Heaven in sight, So's my heart's cheer When He be near.
He never pushed the garden door, He left no footmark on the floor; I never heard 'Un stir nor tread And yet His Hand do bless my head, And when 'tis time for work to start I takes Him with me in my heart. And when I die, pray God I see At very last thik apple tree An' stoopin' limb, And think of Him And all He been to me.
ANNA BUNSTON DE BARY
170 WONDER
How like an Angel came I down! How bright were all things here! When first among His works I did appear O how their Glory me did crown! The world resembled His ETERNITY, In which my soul did walk; And every thing that I did see Did with me talk.
The skies in their magnificence, The lively, lovely air, Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair! The stars did entertain my sense, And all the works of God, so bright and pure, So rich and great did seem, As if they ever must endure In my esteem....
The streets were paved with golden stones, The boys and girls were mine, Oh how did all their lovely faces shine! The sons of men were holy ones, In joy and beauty they appeared to me, And every thing which here I found, While like an Angel I did see, Adorned the ground.
Rich diamond and pearl and gold In every place was seen; Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green, Mine eyes did everywhere behold. Great wonders clothed with glory did appear, Amazement was my bliss, That and my wealth was everywhere; No joy to this!...
THOMAS TRAHERNE
171 SONG
How sweet I roamed from field to field And tasted all the summer's pride, Till I the Prince of Love beheld Who in the sunny beams did glide!
He showed me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow; He led me through his gardens fair Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May dews my wings were wet, And Phoebus fired my vocal rage; He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty.
WILLIAM BLAKE
172 THE BOOK
Of this fair volume which we World do name If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, Of Him who it corrects and did it frame, We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame, His providence extending everywhere, His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, In every page, no period of the same.
But silly we, like foolish children, rest Well pleased with coloured vellum, leaves of gold, Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best, On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
Or, if by chance we stay our minds on aught, It is some picture on the margin wrought.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND
173 TETHY'S FESTIVAL
Are they shadows that we see? And can shadows pleasure give? Pleasures only shadow's be, Cast by bodies we conceive; And are made the things we deem In those figures which they seem.
But those pleasures vanish fast, Which by shadow's are exprest; Pleasures are not, if they last; In their passing is their best: Glory is more bright and gay In a flash, and so away.
Feed apace then, greedy eyes, On the wonder you behold: Take it sudden, as it flies, Though you take it not to hold. When your eyes have done their part Thought must length'n it in the heart.
SAMUEL DANIEL