Cornell University Library 
 PR 4161.B594I3 
 
 In a village. 
 
 3 1924 013 438 985 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013438985 
 
EXTRACTS FROM NOTICES OF 
 " WET DAYS." 
 
 " The book is a right good little work." — Vanity Fair. 
 
 " The Farmer is a shrewd observer, and has a good eye for 
 character. " — Scotsman. 
 
 " We do not know where else to look for poetry of this par- 
 ticular strain." — /fe// Mall Gazette. 
 
 "A Farmer's poems are calculated to give delight to many 
 readers, and deserve a cordial reception. There is in them 
 something more than rhyme and rhythm ; they are instinct with 
 humanity. " — Standard. 
 
 " A frequent nobility of thought." — Academy. 
 
 " In their quaint simplicity and their truth to nature they 
 recall the poetry of a previous generation rather than the forced 
 and feverish product of our own." — Contemporary Review. 
 
IN A VILLAGE 
 
IN A VILLAGE 
 
 I 
 
 y 
 
 an- 
 
 JOHN A.-{,BRIDGES 
 
 AUTHOR OF " WET DAYS," ETC. 
 
 •"^".^ *■ 
 
 ,ni<.w<f<i-<~' "—:,,„„ „,,v»^' 
 
 LONDON 
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET 
 
 1898 
 
CHtSWICK PRESS :— CHAHLES WHITTINGIfAM AND CO. 
 TOOKS COUKT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. 
 
I AM indebted to the courtesy of the Editor for permission 
 to reprint such of these poems as have appeared previously in 
 the " St. James's Gazette." 
 
 John A. Bridges. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Poor Place i 
 
 The Old Church 3 
 
 At a. Confirmation 7 
 
 The Village Organist 8 
 
 Out of Town 10 
 
 "Four Corners to my Bed" 14 
 
 The Satchel 16 
 
 The Bell . . 18 
 
 The Hill Farm 21 
 
 The Old Ploughman 24 
 
 The Parish Doctor 27 
 
 Farmer Brown 30 
 
 The Dripping Well .... . . • • 33 
 
 The Usher — Old Style 34 
 
 "The Spaniards" 37 
 
 The Mower . . . 41 
 
 Her Spring 43 
 
 The Autumn Crocus . . 44 
 
 The Transit of Venus 45 
 
 The Violets .... 46 
 
 Folded 48 
 
 Bean-Blossoms -49 
 
 The Jackdaws 5° 
 
 The Poet's Corner 5^ 
 
 EVANDER AND PaLLAS 52 
 
 The Proof 54 
 
2 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Or a woman acts an angel's part — as many so fain 
 
 would do — 
 I seem for a moment to grasp their hands — brother 
 
 and sister too. 
 
 When praise writes fair, or censure blots the familiar 
 
 local name, 
 I am present with glad or downcast eyes to share in 
 
 the joy or blame. 
 When brave men steer from that humble port for 
 
 breakers they cannot stem, 
 I stand on the deck of the sinking boat, and my heart 
 
 goes down with them. 
 
 Something hallows it. Distance, I fear, gives it that 
 
 shadowy grace ; 
 Mistily thus with a memory gilds the bricks of an 
 
 uncouth place ; 
 Mellows the past as age is found to soften the strong 
 
 rough wine ; 
 Gives brightness to days which were cloudy enough, 
 
 makes dear dull souls run fine. 
 
 Yes, they were common, and yet I think they had 
 
 what the great have not ; 
 Beauty, nobility, tenderness, strength, fashioned their 
 
 simple lot. 
 Strange and old-world things, gone out with the odd 
 
 little coat I wore. 
 It was but the place of my birth, you see ; no need to 
 
 explain it more. 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH. 
 
 I 
 
 The paths that wound are straight and strange ; 
 
 The straggling hedge is trim and low ; 
 Felled the quaint thorns which used to change 
 
 Their winter flush for summer snow. 
 By mossy mounds, long lost to fame, 
 
 The smart young stone its sculpture rears ; 
 But no new trees the dark yew shame, 
 
 And still the old porch its ivy wears. 
 
 'Twas through this porch passed long ago 
 
 My tiny face from lace hood peeping : 
 O ancient nurse, who pinched me so 
 
 Lest I should sleep, how sound you're sleeping ! 
 Dear grim old font, how well it wears ! 
 
 What unborn babes shall wail around it ; 
 Love, hope, and doubt ; have done with tears. 
 
 And doubts, and leave it as they found it ! 
 
 Here in our roomy pew (this slice 
 
 They've cut so thin I scarce can push in) 
 Our little feet made pigeon-pies, 
 
 Or dangled from the green-baize cushion ; 
 We stood on tiptoe to adore 
 
 The beauty we were then adoring, 
 Or smiled to hear young Stubbins snore 
 
 Where now his older son is snoring. 
 
4 IN A VILLAGE, 
 
 Here, I was told, long ages past, ' 
 
 Ere yonder yew first took the snow in, 
 A great apostle stood and cast 
 
 A precious seed which still is growing : 
 Here burning words of old might sting 
 
 Some heart which nursed each antique passion 
 'Gainst which our modern preachers string 
 
 Their harps in such decorous fashion. 
 
 Old church, I greet thee once again ; 
 
 And thee, pale priest so thin and yellow. 
 Whose cheeks, whose crazy shins must pain 
 
 The ghost of many a better fellow. 
 Are all those stout-legged parsons gone, 
 
 And gaiters which so well became them ? 
 Long frocks the meagre moderns don 
 
 To hide their shanks : and who can blame them 
 
 Here in the drowsy afternoon 
 
 Perpetual curate's tuneless droning 
 Was changed by slumber's blissful boon 
 
 To sounds of ocean's distant moaning. 
 Here first my panting bosom felt 
 
 Mysterious throbs, long since grown calmer ; 
 'Twas such a foolish boy who knelt 
 
 And begged of Heaven to shield his charmer. 
 
 Who charmed me then let memory tell. 
 Held half my hymn-book, all my fancy ? 
 
 A doctor's daughter wove the spell ; 
 And yonder sits my darling Nancy : 
 
THE OLD CHURCH. 
 
 Time, as he stole each maiden girace, 
 
 Proved the dear witch was all I thought her. 
 
 One near her has the old-time fkce, 
 The daughter of the doctor's daughter. 
 
 But, O three-decker, where are you ? 
 
 The preacher from your giddy height 
 Could slumbering curate midway view, 
 
 Beneath the clerk's pate bald and bright ; 
 Or gaze like Damocles aloft. 
 
 Where, from its chain in need of mending. 
 Swung the old sounding-board : how oft 
 
 We used to fancy it descending ! 
 
 Old sin-worn roof, how many prayers 
 
 Your ready chinks have upward passed ! 
 How many thousand burdening cares 
 
 Of weary men on Heaven you've cast ! 
 The shoemaker's remorseful throes. 
 
 The soul-touched grocer's promise rasher, 
 The penitence that weekly rose 
 
 From publican and haberdasher. 
 
 And could I still, as oft before 
 
 I was on many a happy Sunday, 
 Be here the little child once more 
 
 I may have ceased to be on Monday, 
 And shed my troubles when I come 
 
 To this dear porch, I would not sorrow 
 No glimpse of the millennium 
 
 Forbade me take them up to-morrow. 
 
IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Passion at least outside must wait, 
 
 And pride awhile his reign forego : 
 When I repass the sacred gate 
 
 Haply their slave they may not know ; 
 Or should they know may not regain 
 
 The allegiance lost, and one day see 
 'Twere wise to break the oft-loosened chain, 
 
 And set their tiresome captive free. 
 
AT A CONFIRMATION. 
 
 AT A CONFIRMATION. 
 
 White-capped the expectant maidens sit 
 With downcast eyes and folded hands. 
 
 O'er each plain face bright glances flit ; 
 So sunbeams gladden barren lands. 
 
 So once o'er Mary's chosen head 
 
 The spirit hovered. Can it be 
 Once lived a holy man who said 
 
 Such words, and brought such hopes to me ? 
 
 Yes, thrilled a voice that 's silent now, 
 Yes, hands long stilled in blessing lay, 
 
 Through the moved heart now calmed and slow, 
 On thick brown locks now thinned and gray. 
 
 And still it moves me as before 
 Though not to me the words are said. 
 
 And still they bless me as of yore 
 Though placed upon another's head. 
 
 They tell the old power to feel is here; 
 
 Hopes are not lost we can regain. 
 Nor dead resolves that reappear 
 
 And come to be confirmed again. 
 
 Who drinks from youth's perennial fount 
 Of thoughts time's drought can not destroy. 
 
 No matter what the years he count — 
 Methusaleh were yet a boy. 
 
IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE VILLAGE ORGANIST. 
 
 " 1 SURPLICE decked, and clean of face and thought, 
 Though you may see some likeness — so you smile — 
 Am not that Johnson whom you yesterday 
 Saw putty-daubed upon the ladder's top, 
 And smeared with much-adulterated paint. 
 But quite another waiting for the choir, 
 And while the blower 's faithful am content. 
 And have my life for two hours in each week. 
 The life I should have loved — and yet who knows, 
 
 Behold the choir advancing two by two ; 
 The postman with the butcher, and the man 
 Who kills the pigs his farmer comrade breeds. 
 That spoony Brown with harumscarum Jones 
 Clothed decently in quite another mind. 
 His right one I scarce hope ; and, last not least, 
 The Rector, holding out a yard before 
 His portly self, the sacred mortar-board 
 I never saw him wear, and placed thereon 
 The fuzzy lucubration of the week. 
 For which he'll shunt the Litany I love. 
 
 Come let us sing unto the Lord. I feel 
 Something'unearthly boiling in my breast, 
 And oozing from my finger-tips. Alas ! 
 We praise Thee, Lord, the best poor way we know, 
 Hymn Thee with all we have of tuneful lore. 
 
THE VILLAGE ORGANIST. 
 
 Rise up on angels' wings to-day, to sink 
 To-morrow to the pigs again — the sty 
 Where Thou hast placed us without power to soar, 
 Save this day only for a little space. 
 
 Too soon the last hymn dies in its Amen. 
 Now the glib' parson drives my goodness out. 
 And wanders hopeful in the hopeless maze 
 Of Abraham's bosom, where he lives to explain 
 The inexplainable, while I grow old. 
 
 Now on our feet — for merciful he stops 
 Just at the forty minutes — and once more. 
 For the last time till six long days are passed, 
 I rouse myself from sleep, do what I can. 
 Not what I would, nor what I could have done — 
 Or so I think, — had but the Rector spared 
 His poppy-loaded ' thirdly.' " 
 
 And so home ; 
 Where, entering at the side-door carelessly. 
 He runs against a pail of paint new mixed 
 For the squire's house to-morrow ; which upset 
 On his best coat his temper too upsets. 
 Brings out a Monday oath, and breaks his shins, 
 And breaks the sacred tenor of his dream. 
 
lO IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 OUT OF TOWN. 
 
 When suns are hot, and struggle through 
 
 My dingy pane's accustomed brown, 
 When every sky save this is blue, 
 
 And all the world is out of town, 
 I too am of it ; for my soul 
 
 At least can follow fancy's bent, 
 And hasten to its oft-sought goal, 
 
 " A little village down in Kent." 
 
 I go to it by coach : all day 
 
 By town, by hill, by dale, we race ; 
 The guard's key-bugle cheers our way. 
 
 His coat no ruddier than his face. 
 The distance comes, is seen, is passed, 
 
 No half-snatched glimpse through smoke and steam; 
 And yet we seem to fly too fast 
 
 Through such a land, with such a team. 
 
 As evening falls we reach the place, 
 
 Last spot to Cockneys quite unknown ; 
 No railroads ancient ways deface. 
 
 Or bring one bagman out of town. 
 The age of gold has not yet set. 
 
 So far behind this age we lag 
 Where thrive the golden farmers yet. 
 
 And wheat 's worth Lord knows what a bag. 
 
OUT OF TOWN. II 
 
 The golden farmers ! for their stock 
 
 No sea-borne murrain sweeps away, 
 Nor constant rains destroy the flock 
 
 Whose wholesome Iambs by kind ewes play. 
 No grain-filled ships through storm and blast 
 
 Wild seas undeviating stem, 
 Or million herds on prairies vast 
 
 Breed, feed, and die to ruin them. 
 
 Here stretch the yellow cornfields wide. 
 
 Blue smoke from each white homestead curls, 
 Sheep dot the sloping valley side. 
 
 And on each hill its windmill whirls : 
 There bounding billows curve and fret, 
 
 Suns rise upon a thousand sail 
 Which wait, not independent yet, 
 
 The coming of the wished^for gale. 
 
 The old church-tower stands straight and square, 
 
 Built of smooth flints from off" the shore ; 
 The aisles are cold and damp and bare, 
 
 Where close-penned farmers weekly snore ; 
 The beadle fiddles to the choir, 
 
 Candles nor cross the altar crown, 
 The old clerk mauls his sacred lore, 
 
 The parson preaches in black gown. 
 
 Two battered patched machines invite 
 
 To pleasing death the bather keen ; 
 Gray sailors loiter round, whose might 
 
 Once launched the old boats 'gainst which they lean ; 
 
12 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 The salt-sea smell is all about, 
 And tarry nets hang everywhere ; 
 
 Day marks no smiling brow with thought, 
 Night brings no haunting dream of care. 
 
 " Rest, rest with us ; " the cool waves' play 
 
 Scarce moves the lazy shingle round ; 
 " Rest, rest with us," land breezes say, 
 
 And scarce the cornfields catch the sound. 
 Dread storms must oft those valleys sweep, 
 
 And winds must stir that peaceful sea ; 
 Yet still those waves but rock my sleep, 
 
 And still those storms bring calm to me. 
 
 But genius (!) loathed the honest street. 
 
 And pined upon the breezy down ; 
 I shook the dust from eager feet. 
 
 And left the country for the town. 
 Back to old scenes should wanderers roam, / 
 
 Their disappointed spirits find 
 Sad changes in the ancient home 
 
 Which they reseek with altered mind. 
 
 So I awake. Each dusty pane 
 
 More dusty for my dream appears ; 
 And is it fancy tries in vain 
 
 Erase the toiling weary years ? 
 Her for the future we invoke, — 
 
 Fair were the towers she used to raise ; — 
 But here a sleeping memory woke 
 
 Of innocent and happy days. 
 
OUT OF TOWN. 13 
 
 When hopes are lost, or gained and passed, 
 
 And each fresh bud 's a withered rose. 
 Beneath the shade your yew-trees cast 
 
 This worn-out truant may repose. 
 Then should some friend my heart lay bare 
 
 When deaf to praise and dead to blame, 
 He'd find the record graven there, 
 
 Dear village, of your humble name. 
 
I'4 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 " Four comers to my bed, 
 Four angels at my hefid." 
 
 The old old house unaltered stands, each stone of it 
 I know. 
 
 And the ancient threshold where I tripped in the days 
 of long ago. 
 
 Stooping I tread the narrow way, and climb the wind- 
 ing stair, 
 
 And I see once more the little bed, but the angels are ] 
 not there. 
 
 O four remembered corners dear which once four 
 
 angels kept, 
 From whence in health I rose so oft, where tired in 
 
 peace I slept, 
 Where a little child was by himself yet never lay alone, 
 Angels four to guard his rest — and now where are 
 
 they gone ? 
 
 Some anxious looks I know they cast, oft held a 
 
 warning finger. 
 Could a little child so fright them that with him they 
 
 dared not linger ? 
 Flew they to keep unchallenged ward afar from sin 
 
 and woe ? 
 But sentinels unneeded watch where there can come 
 
 no foe. 
 
"FOUR CORNERS TO MY BED" 1 5 
 
 Alas ! impatient spirits false, you might have known, 
 
 I think, 
 That to th' old stream at set of sun the hart would 
 
 turn to drink. 
 Are sinless souls so many then, or angels got so few. 
 That mine to win you could not watch for one short 
 
 hour or two ? 
 
1 6 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE SATCHEL. 
 
 The satchel on its ancient hook, 
 
 The dusty little cap above it ; 
 Whereon we've not the heart to look, 
 
 Wherefrom we've not the heart to move it. 
 What springs have into winters grown, 
 
 What spring-time hearts has age turned colder, 
 Since the dear fellow took it down 
 
 And strapped it on his little shoulder ? 
 
 He had the very sweetest face — 
 
 Or so we deemed — that boy had ever ; 
 His childish thoughts we could not trace. 
 
 So called him " anything but clever." 
 For days and weeks, and weeks and days, 
 
 We roamed about the first declension. 
 The torture filled him with amaze ; 
 
 He fancied it my own invention. 
 
 We never got to " amo," yet 
 
 How fondly he could love his mother ; 
 Each homeless dog he'd make his pet. 
 
 And feel for him as for a brother. 
 The closest fellowship he'd own 
 
 With all the outcasts of creation, 
 And for a wounded bird would groan 
 
 As if it were his near relation. 
 
THE SATCHEL. 1 7 
 
 I told him simple things — which made 
 
 His blue eyes stare with trustful wonder — 
 Of earth, sea, heaven. I'm since afraid 
 
 He 's found out many a senseless blunder. 
 From learning's shelf with wrinkled brow 
 
 What lore on tiptoe I would reach him ! 
 Is the dear fellow thinking now 
 
 What useless stuff I used to teach him ? 
 
 I wish he'd send — 'twould be but fair — 
 
 A programme of his work up yonder, 
 Name those his house and play who share. 
 
 And tell whose love than ours is fonder. 
 Persuade — Oh ! such persuader must. 
 
 When prophets fail and preachers vain — 
 Each weary heart once more to trust, 
 
 And take its way to school again. 
 
 How gladly, darling, could I learn 
 
 The thousandth part of half your knowledge, 
 I'd take your satchel in my turn. 
 
 And toddle off again to college ; 
 Lend my bent back to harmless cane, 
 
 Wear foolscap which these locks would match ill. 
 Though some might say But 'tis in vain. 
 
 Hang undisturbed, dear tiny satchel. 
 
1 8 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE BELL* 
 
 It rang from the roof of my father's house in the days 
 
 when we were young, 
 Where around our home to their chestnut poles the 
 
 teeming hop-vines clung. 
 Vast oak trees budded around in spring, dry leaves in 
 
 the autumn fell, 
 And hours into days and youth to age were turned by 
 
 the dear old bell. 
 
 Gold and silver and brass were mixed to give it a 
 
 mellow tone, 
 And scarce a bell in the country-side with ours could 
 
 hold its own. 
 When across our fields the chimes rang out from the 
 
 old cathedral towers, 
 We heard them peal in the distance dim, and thought 
 
 that they answered ours. 
 
 It saw old men to their last home borne, and many an 
 
 ancient dame. 
 And children nipped in their early spring, but it still 
 
 rang on the same. ^ 
 
 * Removed from Heppington, Kent ; now at Cassington, 
 Oxford. 
 
THE BELL. 1 9 
 
 How many a sunbeam on it glaiiced, how many a 
 
 shadow fell ! 
 But if in its tones a change there seemed, 'twas in us 
 
 and not the bell. 
 
 We wandered away from the ancient home, and I took 
 
 the bell with me. 
 And I fitted it newly, and bid it strike, and it strikes 
 
 me a memory. 
 No curfew now to the ploughman's toil, no more 
 
 through the woods 'tis heard. 
 But rings through passages new and strange the note 
 
 of a prisoned bird. 
 
 Yet constant still the old bell rings out as in the 
 
 ancient place. 
 So bravely rings, who would not shame to show a 
 
 peevish face ? 
 And I foolishly wonder — I love it so — when I shall be 
 
 underground 
 Will it summon the guests I shall not know with a 
 
 gayer or sadder sound ? 
 
 When babes were born and hearts rejoiced it seemed 
 
 our joy to know. 
 To saddened souls its note tolled sad with their own 
 
 note of woe. 
 'Twas feeling altered changeless chimes ; no matter 
 
 where we fly 
 A dull or merry heart rings out, and makes or mars 
 
 our sky. 
 
20 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 And the bell's but a thing we make ourselves that 
 
 outlasts its maker long, 
 Like the house we build, or the tree we plant, or even 
 
 a simple song. 
 An ill deed tolls when the actor 's gone with a sad and 
 
 pternal knell, 
 And a good deed long to our children speaks with the 
 
 sound of a wedding bell. 
 
THE HILL FARM. 21 
 
 THE HILL FARM. 
 
 As sunbeams bright with their silver light on fresh- 
 turned furrows play 
 
 She came to the farm behind the hill on a dull 
 December day. 
 
 She came all charming, as angels ought, from a world 
 I did not know ; 
 
 Then back she flew to the world she knew, and I went 
 back to my plough. 
 
 Oh, dark, dark hills, which were once so bright ! Oh, 
 
 heart which was once so gay ! 
 Oh, face which should never have blessed my sight, or 
 
 never have gone away ! 
 And oh, to be foolish as once I was, or blithe as my 
 
 mates are still ! 
 And oh, to see nothing on earth so good as the farm 
 
 behind the hill ! 
 
 For once 'twas good to rise at dawn, my prayer with 
 
 the lark's upthrown. 
 And to lay me at night on my humble bed, tired and 
 
 contented, down ; 
 
22 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Or bashful toast in a modest glass the belle of the 
 
 country-side, 
 Ere I ever had dreamed there was one like her in all 
 
 the world so wide. 
 
 Now gone is my bliss of dull content which once 
 
 sufficed my lot. 
 Why further pride in, an honest hand since she would 
 
 clasp it not ? 
 What now to me is a tenfold yield piled high on the 
 
 old barn floor ? 
 Ho ! Rover dog, I could whistle once as I never shall 
 
 whistle more. 
 
 Old Captain, Buxom, and Dobbin, too, you are sense- 
 less beasts at best ; 
 
 Full many a night I'd lie awake, but it never spoilt 
 your rest ; 
 
 Full oft by day with a heavy heart, and no responsive 
 sigh, 
 
 I've let you stand in the half-ploughed land — but did 
 you wonder why ? 
 
 Who shall woo her at times, I guess, shall call her his 
 
 own, his dear. 
 And gaze in her eyes for his destiny — but I never 
 
 could bear to hear. 
 'Tis not that to curse him I'd be fain, for blessing is 
 
 more my way. 
 Oh, cherish her fondly whom I may not, and be good to 
 
 her who may ! 
 
THE HILL FARM, 23 
 
 But however it's ruled this world of ours, with its 
 
 mixture of loss and gain, 
 ' Where some with toil must plough the soil that others 
 
 may reap the grain, 
 For her be the light of the sunrise bright wherever her 
 
 footsteps stray, 
 For me the shade which the sunset made on the night 
 
 she went away. ' 
 
§4 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE OLD PLOUGHMAN. 
 
 Yes, master, rheumatics is bad, so I thought I was 
 
 best at home. 
 Lors ! how the rain comes down ! but the missus she 
 
 fancied you'd come. 
 I'm glad that I landed the " ten acres " up before I 
 
 gin out, 
 Or it wouldn't have dried before April with all this 
 
 water about. 
 Now you can sow it come a fine week, and I hope it 
 
 will yield ; 
 Twenty-six years I've ploughed it, and oh! it's a 
 
 deuce of a field. 
 That steamer was never no good, and I wished it was 
 
 broken to bits ; 
 Coal and water all day, and it worried me out of my 
 
 wits. 
 But steady 's the way to get on with your work, as 
 
 I've always found. 
 Furrow by furrow, land by land, gets over the ground. 
 
 What does we do sitting here all day the missus and 
 
 me? 
 Gets up and potters about in the dawn, and to bed 
 
 after tea. 
 
THE OLD PLOUGHMAN. 25 
 
 Talking ! We've nothing to talk of ; I never was used 
 
 to prate ; 
 Sits with our hands on our knees, and blinks half 
 
 asleep at the grate. 
 
 Thinking ! We never minds thinking. Thinking 's 
 
 a poor sort of game — 
 Thinking of what we must come to now that we're old 
 
 and lame, 
 With never a sixpence saved to keep us from going 
 
 down hill, 
 While some as done never a stroke are eating and 
 
 drinking their fill. 
 I never could do with no thinking, except about horses 
 
 and such. 
 And wishing 's the same sort of folly ; and none of 'em 
 
 troubles us much. 
 
 What could we wish for, you see, at least that we're 
 
 likely to get ? 
 Not all the wishing in heaven could keep out the cold 
 
 and the wet ; 
 Not all the wishing on earth could change a gray horse 
 
 to a brown, 
 Bring me a new pair of legs, or find the old dame a 
 
 new gown. 
 You had ought to have got me a new pair of legs when 
 
 you bought the new plough ; 
 If I only could tell where to get 'em I think I'd have 
 
 knowledge enow. 
 
26 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Should I have ploughed any better for learning to 
 
 write and to read 
 As they teaches 'em up at the Board School ? They 
 
 makes fine ploughboys indeed ! 
 That Tommy of ours with his schooling! I doubt 
 
 that they spared him the birch ; 
 Can't keep a team in the furrow, for all that he sings 
 
 in the church. 
 'Twasn't the fashion when I was a lad, but they 
 
 changes about : 
 Years since my smock was the fashion, and I and my 
 
 smock are worn out. 
 
 The scores of Novembers I've seen, yet never knowed 
 
 one so bad. 
 Seasons ain't half what they used to be when I was a 
 
 lad. 
 Yet somehow whatever the season the wheat 's almost 
 
 always got ; 
 God-amighty don't send us His blessings for stupids to 
 
 leave 'em to rot. 
 He don't make it always summer, He won't let it 
 
 always snow : 
 Some sort of weather I'll have, please God, wheresum- 
 
 ever I go. 
 
THE PARISH DOCTOR. 27 
 
 THE PARISH DOCTOR. 
 
 Behold me, wife, and better late than never, 
 Wet to the skin, hungry, and sulky, too. 
 The old mare cast a shoe, no blacksmith's shop 
 Within a league ; I walked her six miles home. 
 How pleasant looks the fire, how bright your face. 
 After the last hour spent in groping for 
 Gates with my whip. No foot I'll stir to-night 
 Let who may send. I want an evening's rest ; 
 
 I want to read that What 's the matter now ? 
 
 Qld Tibbats' folk have sent to say he 's dying ? 
 
 Quick, Harry, saddle the old mare again. 
 
 Give her some gruel first. Though how the deuce 
 
 To ride her with three shoes ? The poor old chap 
 
 Has had a hardish time (Order me quick 
 
 A crust and tankard !), toiling all his days 
 
 At ploughing money in and reaping twitch, 
 
 Which men call " farming " in this fruitful land. 
 
 How cross he used to be, how hard it was 
 
 To get a penny out of him ! And yet 
 
 A stout heart beat beneath that rugged breast. 
 
 Or he'd have rested from his cares before. 
 
 I wonder if he has the least idea 
 
 Of where he 's going, or cares at all to know. 
 
 He 's had but little time to think with all 
 
 His grubbing, and he got no help from me. 
 
28 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 This ale ! From Blossom ? Blossom sent it in 
 To pay his bill. If no more strength had been 
 In what I sent him than is in this ale 
 He had gone where Tom is going. Ale, indeed ! 
 
 This dying's the one draught all patients take; 
 No ranging it with others on a shelf 
 To show the doctor when he boasts about 
 His physic that you're cured in spite of him — 
 About as poor a joke as man could play. 
 I'm getting tired of patching bodies up ; 
 A sign my own wants patching. Years ago 
 I used to think myself exempt ; it 's time 
 To study out the matter ; yet I've scarce 
 A moment I can call my own for thought ; 
 Asleep before I've crawled into my bed, ■ 
 And waked before I've time to plan a dream. 
 They're always being born or the reverse. 
 Arid that 's what tires me, there 's so little new ; 
 For, knowing each weak point in every limb 
 For ten miles round, and knowing too the cause 
 Shall surely strain hereafter brain or limb, 
 Who sends for me wastes words explaining why. 
 Joe Smith's fat pony in a lather means 
 Gout, and that spavined mare of Ashford's tells 
 Her master 's gone too fast, just like his mare ; 
 I wish I didn't know her quite so well. 
 Prescriptions gather strength with each attack. 
 When vets, find blisters useless they're but changed 
 For firing — legs once fired give up the case. 
 Then there 's a funeral. I ride within 
 The well-known mourning coach and catch a coM. 
 
THE PARISH DOCTOR. 29 
 
 Some from a pulpit curse or bless mankind ; 
 They're saved of course as making their own laws. 
 Some write fine verses — ah ! that 's practical ! 
 I can't stand verse. Old Homer 's good enough ; 
 But oh, the moderns with their jingling rhymes ! 
 Is't want of wit in them or brains in me ? 
 Some patriotic souls are eloquent 
 Like parrots for a pudding, some men judge 
 Mankind, some judge themselves I hope, and some 
 Do the real work ; and we, when this same work 
 Has bowled the doers ovef, set them up 
 Upon their pins to be bowled down again. 
 Our sails are always set, towing some craft 
 Into the harbour whence 'twill put to sea 
 A.I. again, perhaps ; but sails wear out ; 
 Had mine been weak they had worn out long ago. 
 Yet if there 's justice in that Heaven above 
 They won't ignore me when I knock and cry : 
 " The parish doctor 's come to take his rest." 
 Confound that boy, when will he bring the mare ? 
 Old Tibbats — 'tisn't long I've called him old — 
 Courted his wife the year I courted mine. 
 God bless me ! What an age ago it seems ! 
 My hair was brown then as your eyes are yet. 
 We're wearing out, my dearest, wearing out, 
 And who 's to set the doctor on his legs ? 
 Well, well, be sure you don't sit up for me. 
 Here comes the mare. God bless you, love ! Good- 
 night. 
 
30 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 FARMER BROWN. 
 
 Look where th' old house stands, 
 
 Roof with red tiles blazing, 
 On the cold clay lands 
 
 Where lean cows lack grazing. 
 Place of which he 's grown 
 
 Fond, he'd scarce be fonder 
 Were it Portland stone. 
 
 Farmer Brown lives yonder. 
 
 See him in his smock, 
 
 Nought for weather caring, 
 Shabby billycock 
 
 Rough with th' old cow's hair in. 
 Scant locks turning gray. 
 
 Like the sunset fading 
 Which he scans to-day. 
 
 Eyes with hard hand shading, 
 
 Toils from dawn to night 
 
 'Midst his wheat and 'tatoes. 
 Then sleeps soundly quite 
 
 As an owl by day does. 
 Keeps a frugal mind ; 
 
 Taxmen, always knocking, 
 Stare when still they find 
 
 Something in his stocking. 
 
FARMER BROWN. 
 
 Radicals he hates, 
 
 Why, he 's not decided ; 
 Thinks they raise the rates ; 
 
 Once I fancy I did. 
 Thinks, perhaps, they're born 
 
 Farming gains to unsettle, 
 Cheap'ning wheat and horn 
 
 For the men of metal. 
 
 Told how farmers quaff 
 
 Fine old port and sherry, 
 Laughs an acid laugh 
 
 O'er his sober perry. 
 On no thoroughbred 
 
 Takes his brooks and doubles : 
 Shanks's mare instead 
 
 Bears him round his stubbles. 
 
 Can't a-bear to pay , 
 
 For the nation's learning ; 
 Girls who sing and play 
 
 Get above their churning. 
 Thinks beside the plough 
 
 Is the school for ploughboys ; 
 Says he ought to know 
 
 What to teach his cowboys. 
 
 When he can afford 
 
 To the " Bull " to wander. 
 Drinks like any lord 
 
 What he means to squander. 
 
32 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Tightly holds the wall, 
 Speaks a little thicker, 
 
 Doesn't speak at all. 
 Carries home his liquor. 
 
 In his dialect 
 
 Tells a famous story ; 
 Likes a war, erect 
 
 Struts with England's glory. 
 Votes as he 's inclined, 
 
 Never fails to stand word ; 
 Says what he 's a mind 
 
 When he meets his landlord. 
 
 Cruel came the days 
 
 Lifelong toil defeating, 
 Lined the honest face. 
 
 Saddened the blithe greeting. 
 Crops by ceaseless wet 
 
 Spoilt ere he could store them ; 
 Hard the ills he met, 
 
 Hard the man who bore them. 
 
 Death when he comes near 
 
 From his cows to sunder 
 Sees no glimpse of fear. 
 
 Just a little wonder. 
 " What must be must be. 
 
 No more toil and labour. 
 Can't exactly see 
 
 Well, goodbye, old neighbour." 
 
THE DRIPPING WELL. 33 
 
 THE DRIPPING WELL. 
 
 The dripping well ! Oh, when shall I forget it, 
 
 Or the slender mountain ash that leant across ? 
 The tiny thorn that half way rose and met it. 
 
 The lichen and the shimmer on the moss ? 
 My tremor as the cold moon watched our greeting, 
 
 And turned the drops to diamonds as they fell. 
 When first with happy bosom loudly beating 
 
 I saw the lovely cursdd dripping well. 
 
 Some say a baby star begins to glimmer 
 
 Coeval with an earth-born baby's cry, 
 Grows brighter as the child grows strong, and dimmer 
 
 To disappear with age's parting sigh. 
 I care not whether true or false the story. 
 
 But well I know 'twas my lost star that fell 
 From Heaven, and shot from all its pride and glory, 
 
 That night when first I saw the dripping well. 
 
 O star upon that night which left the others 
 
 That twinkle in their frost-lit splendour yet ! 
 Did any of your million happy brothers 
 
 Lament the kindred ray for ever set ? 
 O happy beings safe from my despairing ! 
 
 Your sister I before from Heaven I fell. 
 Had Heaven no more for you than me been caring 
 
 You too had chanced to hate the dripping well. 
 D 
 
34 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE USHER— OLD STYLE. 
 
 He was thin and pale, but though fate might bend 
 His form, the spirit it could not quell. 
 
 His dress was shabby, for bankers lend 
 No money to those who need it. Well ! 
 He told more riches than they could tell. 
 
 He'd a mother in luxury whom he kept \ 
 
 On just ten shillings a week in gold. 
 
 He'd a brother for whom his weak eyes wept, 
 Wishing that he was under the mould ; 
 And a love — but his love was never told. 
 
 From his sordid couch from dreams he'd rise 
 Of feasts on Olympus which he would share. 
 
 Not all he wants to whom fate denies 
 The vulgar^ viands for which we care. 
 The food that he had he did not spare. 
 
 If bread and cheese his meal might lack, 
 He had ever at hand a drink divine — 
 
 Poor crumb of bread to a sea of sack. 
 Called, it Castalia ; there were nine 
 Ladies who flew to shftre his wine, 
 
THE USHER — OLD STYLE. 35 
 
 \s he walked to his daily labour dull 
 The foul streets might have been gold for him. 
 
 His purse was empty, his heart was full ; 
 His hopes were bright though his eye was dim, 
 
 And light heart triumphed o'er weary limb. 
 
 i! 
 
 iWe teazed him, the wretched crew we were, 
 With thoughtless gibing which would have torn 
 
 A heart unused to the fruitless sneer 
 Which struck no spark of disgust or scorn ; 
 For he set not his breast against a thorn. 
 
 And he loved, if not for the raven's sake, 
 Each little raven that brought him bread, 
 
 [While he sat in his desert, and saw earth wake 
 
 To a day which should shower down honours, instead 
 Of insults, on an ennobled head. 
 
 He never despaired for a moment, nor 
 Thought any end but the best would come, 
 
 But that highest place he was eager for, 
 " His name on the back of a world-read tome." 
 Instead came a message called him home. 
 
 One morn when the sun was bright in the East 
 We heard this crawler from earth had soared. 
 
 Leaving to me, who had laughed the least 
 At his ways, his manuscripts underscored. 
 To make me famous and him deplored. 
 
36 ' IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Poor drudge ! great king, I would rather say ; 
 Half-starved, yet feasting on regal fare ; 
 
 No more shall headmaster cross your way. 
 Save one who shall for his usher care 
 With a shining robe for the black threadbare. 
 
 If a simple heart from falsehood free, 
 
 If a soul which never a mean thought knew. 
 
 Could have kept him on earth, he were still with me ; 
 But such are required in heaven too. 
 And are sooner taken because so few. 
 
 And I am not famous, nor is he wept 
 
 In this, if loved on another strand ; 
 Yet he was happy, and I have kept 
 
 These reams that I never could understand. 
 
 He may construe them in a better land. 
 
"THE SPANIARDS." 37 
 
 "THE SPANIARDS." 
 
 " Hinc exaudiri gemitus et saeva sonare 
 Verbera." Virg., Mn. VI. 
 
 I WRITE not of historic Spain, 
 
 Her glories or her Inquisition, 
 Nor from th' Armada's threatenings vain 
 
 Would point my moral at ambition ; 
 Nor of Don Quixote and his squire, 
 
 His palaces and mills and tanyards ; 
 Another day let these inspire. — 
 
 I'm thinking now of other Spaniards. 
 
 They live not many miles from where 
 
 Out of his mist St. Paul's arises. 
 (A shining dot high up in air 
 
 His ball the countryman surprises.) 
 No more to vex you, they're an inn 
 
 Which thrives on sales of ale and porter, 
 Fine wines — home-made — and watered gin 
 
 For those poor men who can't drink water. 
 
 'Twas here I bought my first cigar — 
 A cabbage or I'm much mistaken ; 
 
 Almost the dire aroma — bah ! 
 Held flavour of suggested bacon. 
 
38 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 'Twas Warlike brought it. Warlike ? stop ! 
 
 An ancient Irish costermonger 
 Whose cherries, cocoanuts, and pop 
 
 Were excellent when we were younger. 
 
 I smoked it by that ancient tree 
 
 Now guarded by a brand-new railing ; 
 Old Warlike held his sides to see 
 
 How awfully I was regaling. 
 Dear Spaniards ! gladly I'd consume, 
 
 Were youth on those false wreaths attending, 
 Your dubious stock, though now 'twould doom 
 
 To fiercer throes and direr rending. 
 
 A mile away there was a school 
 
 — And this is all my little mystery — 
 A master there who youths could rule 
 
 As few since Squeers' pathetic history. 
 His sinewy arm, and cruel frown. 
 
 His ear stone-deaf to prayers and screeches, 
 Took many a youthful spirit down. 
 
 And half a million pairs of breeches. 
 
 I was a wicked lad I know. 
 
 Because on every blessed Monday 
 Through that glass door I had to go : 
 
 Knowledge which brought no bliss to Sunday. 
 I broke Ball's nose in artless play. 
 
 The size of it was quite appalling ; 
 To cap my crimes I smoked one day 
 
 The smoke that I am now recalling. 
 
"THE SPANIARDS." 39 
 
 But good, indifferent, or bad 
 
 The dear kind man seemed quite to like me ; 
 I was so very fat a lad 
 
 It was a sort of joy to strike me. 
 With horse-hair we would split the cane ; 
 
 We hid the birch ; it didn't matter. 
 Rubbed lemons on our hands — in vain. 
 
 I should have died had I been fatter. 
 
 What grand new cricket ground is here ? 
 
 Our old one was confined and bumpy. 
 Where 's the big oak we climbed ? Oh, dear ! 
 
 I never thought it was so stumpy. 
 And you, my mates, who seemed to me 
 
 Secure of lawn, already ermined. 
 Have you too dwindled like yon tree ? 
 
 You scarce are all our hopes determined. 
 
 And what of you by deep design 
 
 Whose name is missed from this recital ? 
 A something whispers, " Master mine. 
 
 Those cruel blows have had requital." 
 You must have had some aches and smarts. 
 
 Some twinges, did you care to track them, 
 For scores and scores of little hearts. 
 
 All lost when you no more could whack them. 
 
 I passed you rather on the wane ; 
 
 Time gives to you who gave no quarter. 
 You live divorced from birch and cane ; 
 
 'Twas not your eye which used to water. 
 
40 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Your face so dire and fateful once 
 We^rs now a harmless senile simper. 
 
 'Twas strange to think how when a dunce 
 You used to make me dance and whimper. 
 
 But what of that ? youth's sun (long dead 
 
 Of petty troubles and vexations) 
 Gilded those groves of birch, and shed 
 
 Its light o'er all the cane plantations. 
 Pitch it away, it 's almost out, 
 
 Old times its smoke-wreaths seemed to summon. 
 And pray what was this all about ? 
 
 My first cigar upon the common. 
 
THE MOWER. 4 1 
 
 THE MOWER. 
 
 Rise, mower, rise ; the last star dies. 
 Pink morning tints, instead, the skies. 
 
 Brush through the glade, and keen invade 
 The meadow with your new-whet blade : 
 
 Your honest pride with strength well plied 
 To leave a clean-cut swath and wide. 
 
 Lay the field low, long stroke and slow ; 
 But few of us could labour so. 
 
 Your rest well won at noon-day sun, 
 Which tells that half your day's work 's done. 
 
 Ends the long day, now go your way. 
 Tired but content with hard-earned pay. 
 
 Foul weather, fair, your labour there 
 May mar or make ; why need you care ? 
 
 The toil was yours ; the storm-cloud lowers, 
 To-morrow and the care is ours : 
 
42 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Scheming in vain through wind and rain, 
 Until at last we load the wain. 
 
 Ceasing to mow you'd soon avow 
 
 " Better bent back than furrowed brow." 
 
 Seek not to share the marks we bear — 
 The wistful eyes and the bleached hair. 
 
 For though calm days heroic lays 
 Extol not, you shall have your praise. 
 
 "Who mows his span the best he can 
 Can do no more for God or man. 
 
HER SPRING. 43 
 
 HER SPRING. 
 
 When snow in snowdrops passed away, 
 And soft winds prophesied of May, 
 And buds of promise gemmed each bough. 
 And hope, fond hope, went forth to sow. 
 And young birds spread the eager wing, 
 She had her spring. 
 
 Hoard — since yourself may need — the tear ; . 
 She had the freshness of the year : 
 Hers the white orchard's promise fair. 
 Ours a ripe apple here and there ; 
 But much lies strewn she thought would cling. 
 She had her spring. 
 
 Some stay but till the swallows come. 
 Others to bear the harvest home. 
 Sweet the full notes birds pipe in May. 
 Not all who face the wintry day 
 Shall hear starved robin suppliant sing. 
 She had her spring. 
 
44 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE AUTUMN CROCUS. 
 
 It answered not to the voice of spring, 
 Nor peeped to welcome the cuckoo's wing. 
 It blanched not pale with the whitening thorn, 
 Nor blushed with poppies in autumn corn. 
 But it came with the coming of winter chill, 
 And mist laid heavy upon the hill. 
 " No more winter," I said, and lo ! 
 It passed and left me before the snow. 
 
 Oh, had it come with the birds in spring 
 It might have passed on the swallow's wing. 
 Love that with spring's first shoots is born 
 Is fitly garnered among the corn. 
 But to come with the passing of autumn chill. 
 And fly ere winter had fled the hill ! 
 Be born with Indian summer's glow, 
 And then lie buried beneath the snow ! 
 
THE TRANSIT OF VENUS. 45 
 
 THE TRANSIT OF VENUS. 
 
 I DID not wander o'er ocean far, 
 Or foreign lands to behold my star ; 
 But I stayed at home, and I saw her pass, 
 And I wish she had been but a homely lass. 
 
 I did not examine the skies by night : 
 Enough that I knew she took her flight. 
 If I had but gazed at the star-lit sky ! 
 But I looked on the earth when she went by. 
 
 It was but a flash from her beauty rare. 
 It was but a scent of her flowing hair. 
 It was but a moment, a year, no more ; 
 It is but a life when all is o'er. 
 
 And you your star who are seeking now. 
 May cool warm hearts in her bosom's snow, 
 May meet the shafts from her soft eyes thrown, 
 And wish you had turned away your own. 
 
 For whom once she passes she has forgot, 
 And who sees her pass can forget her not ; 
 He may gaze on earth, he may search the sky, 
 But never again will she pass him by. 
 
46 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE VIOLETS. 
 
 Snow in the air, and snow on the fields, and snow, 
 
 cold snow on the hill. 
 Calmly the lilies are sleeping yet, and the violets 
 
 sleeping still. 
 Time ye were waked, 'tis time ye were stirred, we wait 
 
 your promise of May, 
 And the modest sheen of your purple and green 
 
 thrusting the snow away. 
 
 Yet shall the violets wake I know, and earth shall be 
 glad once more ; 
 
 But oh, for a spring to revisit the souls whose spring- 
 time once is o'er. 
 
 Never a flower or a bud for them, but only a wintry 
 glow; 
 
 But only to sit with hopeless eyes and gaze in vain at 
 the snow. 
 
 Violets nursed by spring's soft han^, then fall'n by a 
 despot's sway ! 
 
 Not of themselves did the violets die ; souls of them- 
 selves decay. 
 
 Sweetly the violets lived their lives, contented in sun 
 and in rain. 
 
 Who helpless were made to blossom and fade sweetly 
 shall blossom again. 
 
THE VIOLETS. 47 
 
 Since not your winter yourselves ye brought, violets ! 
 rightly ye wake. 
 
 Right too, alas ! that souls should sleep, souls which 
 their winter make. 
 
 So violets gay may laugh at decay with many a spring- 
 time in store. 
 
 So keep your spring while ye may, ye souls ! once 
 passed, it shall come no more. 
 
4S IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 FOLDED. 
 
 Folded upon her bosom true 
 
 The still hands He, which lately moved 
 
 So busily for all she loved, 
 Which moved so busily for you. 
 
 Cold the quick feet which to and fro 
 
 Went at your wish ; God grant your own 
 Through long disuse not useless grown. 
 
 How if her zeal but wrought your woe ? 
 
 Some rust undrawn from day to day 
 
 Through long dull years which have no story ; 
 
 Better the brief flash of your glory — 
 Brave sword soon broken in the fray. 
 
BEAN-BLOSSOMS. 49 
 
 BEAN-BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Where grass grows short and the meadows end, 
 And hedged fields slowly the hill ascend, 
 To the gentle breezes bending low, 
 Lazily bending, the bean-flowers blow. 
 
 In winter the steaming horses toil 
 With the bright plough deep in the loamy soil ; 
 In spring the sower goes forth to sow : 
 Sweet in the summer the bean-flowers blow. 
 
 Thither the bee with his ceaseless hum. 
 Thither the maids with their lovers come. 
 Pity that beauty cannot last ! 
 Pity the blossoms fade so fast ! 
 
 Oh, sweet the scent of the garden-rose ; 
 As sweet on the hill the bean-flower blows. 
 The bean to the threshing-floor shall come. 
 But the rose is not at the harvest home. 
 
 Maiden, what do the bean^flowers say ? 
 " Beauty but lasts for a little day. 
 Who learns the lesson our blossoms tell 
 May be sweet pid lovely and good as well." 
 E 
 
so IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE JACKDAWS. 
 
 How often long ago 
 
 Lying wearied out with play, 
 Have I watched the jackdaws wheeling 
 
 Round the old cathedral gray ; 
 So content to croak and fly 
 'Neath a blue or cloudy sky • 
 
 And I thought them dull and ancient, 
 For my life was in its May. 
 
 Now again I lie beneath 
 
 Looking up into the sky ; 
 Still the grass is green around me. 
 
 Still above the jackdaws fly ; 
 And behold they are not changed 
 By all storms which since have ranged, 
 
 And I think " O happy jackdaws ! 
 You are younger now than I." 
 
 Your secret, youthful jackdaws ? 
 
 All too late L guess the why ; 
 " Be content with any weather. 
 
 Sailing calm beneath God's sky : 
 If no hero, then no scars : ' , 
 
 If a cage, don't beat the bars ; 
 
 Wishing not for eagle's pinion. 
 And not blind without his eye." 
 
THE POET'S CORNER. 5 1 
 
 THE POET'S CORNER. 
 
 When toils are over and labours cease, 
 And life and love nor vex nor please, 
 Where shall the poet's rest be found 
 Whose living brows no laurel crowned ? 
 Genius 'neath marble tomb may rest, 
 Art pile her grief on valour's breast ; 
 And funeral anthems herald fame : 
 A softer requiem I'd claim. 
 
 Can pompous monumental urn 
 Bid triumphs linger, hopes return. 
 Warm clay-cold hearts at passion's glow 
 Or bend once more the broken bow ? 
 Death in the Abbey death must be, 
 Dust is but dust beneath the tree ; 
 He who's forgot is dead indeed, 
 Who still is loved no fame will need. 
 
 And who dare say I may not know 
 
 A little pang, a tiny glow, 
 
 Some touch, though slight, of love which shall 
 
 The sweet familiar pain recall. 
 
 When to your bosom I repair 
 
 And find my Poet's Corner there, 
 
 Live in its loving fall and rise, 
 
 And shine immortal in your eyes ? 
 
ji m A VILLAGE. 
 
 EVANDER AND PALLAS. 
 
 Alone, dear son, thou should'st not go to death or 
 
 victory 
 If but the gods would give me back the precious years 
 
 gone by. 
 Make strong these arms as once they were, unbleach 
 
 these locks of snow, 
 Cure the dire ills by their decree which age must 
 
 undergo. 
 And yet may they who never bent beneath the weight 
 
 of years 
 Take pity on a poor old king, and list a father's 
 
 prayers. 
 
 Son, if the gods will bring thee back once more to my 
 
 embrace. 
 And grant to look with failing eyes once more upon 
 
 thy face, 
 I pray for life ; content with that to bear what ills 
 
 they give. 
 So they permit this worn-out frame to suffer and yet 
 
 live. 
 For short of death there's not in life extremity of 
 
 pain 
 I would not welcome, certain so to welcome 'thee 
 
 again. 
 
EVANDER AND PALLAS. 53 
 
 But if the gods have fixed thy fate no more to 
 
 brighten mine, 
 May kindly death these old eyes close before he 
 
 darkens thine ; 
 While feebly hopes assail the doubts they cannot 
 
 overthrow, 
 Ere doubts confirmed shall turn those hopes to 
 
 certainty of woe, 
 'Twere best life ceased while to this breast thy living 
 
 form I strain. 
 With arms not destined, it may be, to clasp a son 
 
 again. 
 
54 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE PROOF. 
 
 Rest, calmly rest, my love, 
 
 While rest you may, she said. 
 Smile, dearest, in thy sleep, and I the watch will keep, 
 
 And sit beside thy head. 
 
 Yet lightly sleep, my love, 
 
 While I thine arms prepare ; 
 For the lake a ripple stirs, and a false hand parts the 
 firs; 
 
 So sleeping be well ware. 
 
 One day has another told. 
 
 Night night has certified. 
 But to-morrow I shall live the kiss of love to give, 
 
 Or you for me have died. 
 
 You promised well, my love. 
 
 Ere sorrow came us nigh. 
 That when the need should be you would fight for 
 home and me. 
 
 Now you must do or die. 
 
 Rest calm, but lightly sleep ; 
 
 The last sleep it may be. 
 By the warding of the blow, by the smiting of the foe. 
 
 Shall I judge, my own, of thee. 
 
REMORSE. 55 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 In dreams last night I visited 
 The awful shores where mortals dead, 
 Who somehow failed on earth to win 
 Their pardon, expiate their sin. 
 Strange punishments my sleeping thought 
 From long-forgotten studies brought ; 
 But while the classic horrors grew. 
 One punishment I saw was new. 
 
 Not all unhappy seemed the ghosts 
 Who kept those visionary coasts. 
 Mercy decreed that they should foil 
 Their misery with ceaseless toil. 
 And toil induced by harsh excess 
 The languor of forgetfulness, 
 Let hopes of expiation in, 
 And modified the sense of sin. 
 
 But one I marked who walked alone 
 And rolled no rough returning stone, 
 Yet seemed from idleness to gain 
 Less ease than they from labours vain. 
 I asked his punishment, and he 
 Faltered " Remorse ! " though what might be 
 The crime which marked him from the host. 
 And shunned by every blood-stained ghost, 
 I did not ask nor did he tell. 
 I knew his punishment was Hell. 
 
56 IN A ViLLAbE. 
 
 THE IMPOSSIBLE. 
 
 Dear chance, whose skirts in sunlight shine, 
 Can aught avail to make you mine ? 
 Dear flying skirts! I scarcely know 
 If to attempt or let you go. 
 
 " Oh, fool to doubt," some victor cries, 
 " He loses all who doubts or flies. 
 Th' impossible is never won. 
 Because 'tis possible when done." 
 
 Pygmalion-like the lover sighs ; 
 Cold marble blushes 'neath his eyes. 
 Hope tints the senseless bosom's snow 
 With something of a human glow. 
 
 And who can say what may not be 
 Who studies hearts or history ? 
 Since kings of peasant stock have been. 
 Or stooped to raise a peasant queen. 
 
 And many a man had he but known 
 He stood so near the wished-for throne 
 Had struggled on for one more day 
 Before he cast his crown away. 
 
 Hope on then while we live and breathe. 
 Are on the earth and not beneath. 
 Th' impossible is when we die. 
 They are not dead who hope and sigh. 
 
REFUSE ME. t,f 
 
 REFUSE ME. 
 
 Refuse me, love, and bid me go 
 To enjoy my necessary woe. 
 For very shame your whispered " yes " 
 Would thrust me back on happiness. 
 
 (With common folk who have no cares. 
 No lamentations, and no prayers ; 
 No unkind mistress or untrue 
 That they need write a sonnet to.) 
 
 'Tis madness — you and some may think- 
 Profess such thirst and then not drink ; 
 With such a fiery longing crave 
 What I so want, yet would not have. 
 
 But trust me — elsewhere though I err — 
 In this a true philosopher ; 
 'Tis Heaven as long as we desire, 
 A lower place when we acquire. 
 
 And every hero's fame begins 
 From what he wants, not what he wins. 
 And hunger 'tis, not fulness, moves 
 Mankind to deeds mankind approves. 
 
58 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 But sweet, misjudge me not, nor say 
 This tragedy of mine was play. 
 'Tis in my nature, which was meant 
 To find its bliss in discontent. 
 
 Let kindness then your warm heart steel 
 To stretch no finger when I kneel. 
 I would but be refused again, 
 And so renew the pleasing pain. 
 
 But not too oft. One day you'll raise 
 Yours to my melancholy gaze. 
 And seeing all my love for you 
 Just feel a little for me too. 
 
 Then wert thou won my fate would see 
 Trouble in happiness with thee. 
 Averted eyes would on me shine. 
 And dim those kinder eyes of thine. 
 
THE TRULY VIRTUOUS. $9 
 
 THE TRULY VIRTUOUS. 
 
 Come, O friends inglorious ! 
 
 Let 's exalt our petty days, 
 
 Praise ourselves whom none else praise, 
 Laud the truly virtuous. 
 
 Come, rejoice with Lazarus, 
 
 Thankful for the gulf that 's fixed 
 Ofttimes sin and us betwixt. 
 
 By compulsion virtuous. 
 
 Love, how fatal to a king ! 
 
 Syren with her scented hair. 
 
 Wavy form, and magic air. 
 Never song for us will sing. 
 
 For ambition did we sigh. 
 
 Could our pique proclaim a war ? 
 Hurry unskilled peasants far 
 
 For an unknown field to die ? 
 
 Cruelty let rich men plan ; 
 
 Meanest bird we dare not scorn 
 Which protects or steals our corn ; 
 
 Weakest horse may save a man. 
 
6o IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Rage and fury us forsake ; 
 
 Power may scheme what foe to harm ; 
 
 Needs the little shop or farm 
 Must for bailiff temper take. 
 
 Peevish cares which money brings, 
 Plaguy worry, finger ache. 
 Which high-seasoned riches make, 
 
 Our plain crust leaves no such stings. 
 
 Strength in weakness we espy. 
 Pushing through the narrow gate 
 Riches can but make more strait. 
 
 Squeezing through the needle's eye. 
 
 Poverty 's our wealth ; let us, 
 Since scant blessings we have got, 
 Thank the giver for our lot, 
 
 By ill-fortune virtuous. 
 
ON A PIKE FOUND BEAD IN OUR POOL. 6t 
 
 ON A PIKE FOUND DEAD IN 
 OUR POOL. 
 
 Brother, the big pike 's dead 1 
 
 Yes, for I've seen him lie 
 Calm, curled up by the reeds at the head 
 
 Of the pool, with glazing eye. 
 The once terrible mouth gaped harmless wide. 
 
 The old belly gleamed white and fat. 
 How many fish like us must have died 
 
 To make a fish like that ? 
 
 How did he die ? Who knows ? 
 
 Choked by a perch, some say ; 
 Some fatherless perch driven mad with the woes 
 
 Of a grudge he determined to pay. 
 And the poor little fish need not struggle in vain. 
 
 Though pikes be never so strong ; 
 For he ever will find a weak link in his chain 
 
 Who is set to avenge a wrong. 
 
 Lord of our lives was he ? 
 
 Seised by his tyrant's law 
 Of the awful right to quench liberty's light, 
 
 And to gather us into his maw. 
 
62 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 To drive us in fear from our river homes dear, 
 
 To harass by night and by day, 
 And to bring them low with hopeless woe 
 
 God meant to be so gay. 
 
 Comrades, rejoice and frisk — 
 
 Ye upon whom he 's not fed — 
 Let each fin give a twist, and each tail a glad whisk, 
 
 The big pike who eat us is dead. 
 'Tis something to know he can harm us no more, 
 
 For a moment it soothes our distress. 
 Though fate has fresh troubles we doubt not in store, 
 
 And only a pike the less. 
 
 But, see ! the rushes are moved ; 
 
 Comrades, another pike ! 
 Were he fatter he might be the friend we so loved ; 
 
 He 's certainly awfully like. 
 Our poor little fish, how 'twill trouble his ghost 
 
 To learn his brave death was in vain ! 
 A lean master instead of the fat one we've lost — 
 
 It 's little enough we shall gain. 
 
BROTHER TOM. 63 
 
 BROTHER TOM. 
 
 What ! Income tax writing again ? If not, I can't 
 
 guess who it 's from ; 
 " H.M.S. ! " I wonder can something have happened 
 
 to Tom ? 
 Years since we had any tidings ; I thought we were 
 
 clean forgot : 
 Tom never took no notice, and we never troubled 
 
 a lot. 
 
 Yes ; all 's over with Tom, and just as I knew it 'ud be ; 
 Killed at some foreign place, fighting for you and me. 
 Stiff with his face to the stars seems as I see him lie, 
 Shot through his honest heart — poor Torri, who'd 
 never say die. 
 
 'Twas always the way with Tom to do what he 
 
 needn't do ; 
 Helping some poor little chap ; beaten to black and 
 
 blue ; 
 Talking of honour and such. Honour, I take it, is 
 
 stuff. 
 Now he knows what it is ; he 's got honour enough. 
 
 He died game, you bet : you couldn't make him afraid. 
 'Tis lucky there 's some as'll fight for us as is fond of 
 trade. 
 
64 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Tom wouldn't never have none of it; trade was a 
 
 humbug, he said ; 
 Called me a Brummagem bagman— Lord ! and now 
 
 he 's dead, 
 
 Tom was a venturesome chap, just one of the old- 
 fashioned sort 
 
 They'd used to have ages ago, and he'd ought to have 
 lived then, he ought. 
 
 He'd have gone down to the beach to meet them 
 Romans in mail. 
 
 Called to his gods — such gods ! — and gone at 'em 
 tooth and nail. 
 
 Who filled the cartridge that shot him, and sent out 
 
 the barrel as well ? 
 Was it his brother who did it ? Possibly ; who can 
 
 tell ? 
 If anything 's fair in love, sure anything 's fairer in 
 
 trade ; 
 Thinking what harm you may do isn't how fortunes 
 
 are made. 
 
 Well, I'm an old John Bull, fond of my comforts and 
 
 home. 
 How could we keep our comforts without, such fellows 
 
 as Tom ? 
 Somehow it goes to my heart ; I'd cry, but tears are 
 
 in vain. 
 Worry old England who may, Tom will not light 
 
 'em again. 
 
THE BROOK. 65 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 We are nearing it apace, 
 
 Its course black billows trace, 
 
 Where the swollen waters race 
 
 In our way, 
 'Twixt rotten banks and steep 
 Flowing dark and swift and deep; 
 Are you shrinking from the leap, 
 
 Gallant bay ? 
 
 Deep, deep the meadows ride, 
 . And you labour in your stride ; 
 Heaving flanks, nostrils wide 
 
 Tell you're done. 
 But brave, as oft before. 
 Be brave a moment more, 
 Then our troubles all are o'er — 
 
 And the run. 
 
 Nor mine nor yours the blame 
 That our strength is not the same, 
 That my muscles ache, that tame 
 Is your eye 
 
 F 
 
66 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 At the end of such a course ; 
 Yet fate's resistless force 
 A beaten man and horse 
 Must defy. 
 
 O'er upland meadows bright, 
 O'er sandy fallows light, 
 You little felt my weight 
 
 At the start. 
 My thoughts half-formed you knew, 
 So keen my will to do, 
 As passed a thrill to you 
 
 From my heart. 
 
 How gaping ploughmen stared 
 As their startled teams we neared. 
 Then swifter disappeared 
 
 From their ken. 
 They wondered who or whence 
 As we romped from fence to fenee. 
 And from the covert dense 
 
 Crept again. 
 
 Full many a good steed 's down. 
 Full many another 's blown, 
 Full many a rider 's thrown ■ 
 
 Indiscreet. 
 Torn pink, bespattered gear. 
 Not this the; dandy wear, 
 Nor thus did they appear 
 
 At the meet. 
 
THE BROOK. ^^ 
 
 O fox, SO sly and good, 
 
 At your brush how many rode ! 
 
 How gaily we pursued, 
 
 One and all ! 
 Reduced to two or one 
 At the finish of the run 
 Still boldly riding on 
 
 For a fall. 
 
68 IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR PASSES. 
 
 The tremor of a parting sigh, 
 A hushed lament, a feeble cry, 
 A snowdrop peeping out forlorn^ 
 'Twas so the baby year was born. 
 
 Gay, suppliant, sad, with artless wiles. 
 Compound of April tears and smiles, 
 Laughter on lip and tear in eye, 
 Childhood his hobby-horse urged by. 
 
 Then bright locks waved, and bright eyes shone, 
 And hearts — such hearts — were lost and won. 
 O summer days ! O rose of June ! 
 And fair fond arms unclasped too soon ! 
 
 Then Autumn reaped his ample store ; 
 His flail rang on the threshing-floor. 
 Who yet had wished the granary bare 
 So love its emptiness might share. 
 
 Then wintry Age bent o'er his gold, 
 Loth to resign, too weak to hold ; 
 Or watched the faces in the fire 
 Glow, flicker, darken, and expire. 
 
THE OLD YEAR PASSES. 6g 
 
 Ice are my tears ; my heart is stone ; 
 Since youth, love, hope have left me lone — 
 Dear leaf-strewn mounds beneath the snow — 
 Let poor December go. 
 
70 IN A. VILLAGE. 
 
 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 The night is dark and still, 
 And a mist is rising chill, 
 
 Chill and cold. 
 We are leaving the loved shore, 
 And the friends we never more 
 
 May behold. 
 
 Our ship glides o'er the bar ; 
 
 Now the lights gleam pale and far ; 
 
 Ere they die 
 A spark from out the West 
 Glows, larger, gleams abreast. 
 
 And goes by. 
 
 Glad voices reach our ears. 
 
 But our eyes are dimmed with tears ; 
 
 Well we know. 
 As we pass into the night, 
 Our hearts were just as light 
 
 Long ago. 
 
 Ours now the tossing wave, 
 And winds that howl and rave 
 O'er the foam. 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. 71 
 
 For them no dreams of strife, 
 But the joys of love and life 
 And of home. 
 
 Thus another takes our place, 
 As a smiling baby face 
 
 May be found 
 In the house whose open door 
 One has passed, for evermore 
 
 Outward bound. 
 
CHISWICK PRESS :— CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.