Classic Poem

From where dark clouds of curling smoke arise,
And the tall column mounts into the skies;
Where the grim arches of the forge appear,
Whose fluted pillars prop the thickening air;
Where domes of peers and humble roofs are found
Alike to spread their mingled vapours round;
From denser air and busy towns I run,
To catch a glimpse of the unclouded sun;
Foe to the toils which wealth and pomp create,
And all the hard-wrought tinsel of the great.
Aurora now had left her crimson bed,
And the sky glowed with pure reflected red;
The moving stars withdrew their timorous light,
As her gilt chariot burst upon the sight;
The glittering pearls that gentle Eve had born,
Were all adorning the sweet brow of Morn;
And every shrub, and every opening flower,
Unlock'd some jewel for the rising hour.
Meanwhile unseen the fragrant zephyr flew,
And gather'd essence from the balmy dew;
I wander'd on, till Fancy bade me stay,
And spend with Health and her one holiday.
Where the clear stream its useful tenor holds,
And the shorn flocks come whiten'd from the folds;
Where on each side the cottages are seen,
Which orchards shelter, and which poplars screen;
There many an apple, in autumnal pride,
Glows with red cheek, and blushes side by side;
Which with nice care is lock'd in oaken chest,
Till Christmas comes, and tarts draw out the feast.
Nor does the garden useful herbs deny,
Fenc'd round with thorns that point their spears on high;
There the thyme blows, from which brown bees distil
The sweets that all their waxen storehouse fill.
The parsley next extends its useful row,
And marjorum sweet is ever taught to grow;
Next balm, and sage, and hyssop, physic yield,
With cordial mint, the doctor of the field.
There spreading cabbage all their strength produce,
And take firm root to stand for winter's use.
Carrots and turnips Sunday-feasts supply,
Till blest potatoes meet the thankful eye.
There the tall pea in stately grandeur stalks,
And humbler bean midst her own fragrance walks.
The ripening currant many a warbler brings,
'Mongst whom the blackbird spreads his sooty wings.
But O! forbear with lure or artful snare
To trap this sweetest songster of the air,
Nor quench in darkness his quick visual ray,
Shut out from liberty and glorious day.
Enough, enough! while to the cage confin'd,
Through all the house his wilding wood-notes wind;
Let him at least the gift of light retain,
Nor hear his whistling pipe with conscious pain!
And, look, where ornament her care bestows!
Above the lily nods the blushing rose,
The fringing poppy and the peony vie
Which shall look gayest in the village eye.
Nor think not these unmeet for Sunday's pride,
When with a woollen thread the nosegay's tied!
There southernwood, and thyme, like broom, behold
Spreading their shade o'er the dark marigold.
Sweetwilliam next, in wig of early pride,
Smiles on himself as if his bob he eyed;
The rose and lily round the posy stray,
And in the church waft faintness far away,
When tir'd with walking many a sultry morn
Through new cut hay, or fields of standing corn;
E'en while at prayers a sudden chillness steals,
And all the heart the creeping sickness feels;
No salts are there,—yet thyme and mint renew
The wasting sense, and cheer from pew to pew.
But now the sun sends forth his scorching rays,
And the hot cattle startling cease to graze;
While to the pool, or darkest shade they hie,
And with the scourging tail whip off th' offending fly.
Along the path that winds around the hill
You lose the milkmaid—though you hear her still.
At the last fair she caught yon thrilling lay,
And now the woods repeat “Auld Robin Gray.”
The waving pail swims lightly on her head,
For equal steps to measur'd music tread.
Adown the stream where woods begin to throw
Their verdant arms around the rocks below,
A rustic bridge across the tide is thrown,
Where briars and woodbine hide the hoary stone,
A simple arch salutes th' admiring eye,
And the mill's clack the tumbling waves supply.
But lest society some loss should share,
And nearest neighbours lack their neighbour's fare,
The tottering step-stones cross the stream are laid,
O'er which trips lightly many a busy maid,
And many a matron, when one failing cow
Bids no big cheese within the cheese-vat grow,
Their wealthier neighbour then, her bowls to swell,
Will gladly take what they as gladly sell.
The morning toils are now completely o'er,
The bowls well scalded, and well swept the floor.
The daughter at the needle plies the seam,
While the good mother hastens to the stream:
There the long webs, that wintry moons began,
Lie stretch'd and beaming in the summer's sun;
And lest he scorch them in his fervid hours,
She scoops along the nice conducted showers;
Till like the snow, that tips the mountain's height,
The brown's dull shade gives place to purest white;
While her sweet child knee-deep is wading seen,
Picking bright stones, or tumbling on the green.
But now the sun's bright whirling wheels appear
On the broad front of noon, in full career,
A sign more welcome hangs not in the air,
For now the sister's call the brothers hear;
Dinner's the word, and every cave around
Devours the voice, and feasts upon the sound.
'Tis dinner, father! all the brothers cry,
Throw down the spade, and heave the pickaxe by;
'Tis dinner, father! home they panting go,
While the tired parent still pants on more slow.
Now the fried rasher meets them on the way,
And savoury pancakes welcome steams convey.
Their pace they mend, till at the pump they stand,
Deluge the face, and purify the hand,
And then to dinner. There the women wait,
And the tired father fills his chair of state;
Smoking potatoes meet their thankful eyes,
And Hunger wafts the grateful sacrifice;
To her libations of sweet milk are pour'd,
And Peace and Plenty watch around the board.
Now, till the sun has somewhat sunk in height,
Yet long before he dips his wheels in night,
The nut-brown labourers their senses steep
In the soft dews of renovating sleep;
The worthy sire to the soft bed repairs,
The sons beneath the shade forget their cares.
The clock strikes two, it beats upon the ear,
And soon the parent's anxious voice they hear;
Come, come, my lads, you must not sleep all day!
They rub their eyes, start up, then stalk away.
But let me not at twelve forget to eye
The learned school-dame's jumping, shrill-ton'd fry.
Some near at home to dinner dancing run,
Eager for play when the repast is done;
Others more distant, bring their satchel'd fare
Safely infolded by a mother's care.
On a wood trencher stands the tower-like pie,
While bread and cheese form battlements on high;
A crust for 'tween-meals in a corner stows,
And guarded butter oaten-cakes enclose;
And shining tin-flasks of new milk, which seem
Best to demand the name of good thick cream!
The dinner done; the happy train so gay,
In various groups disperse to various play;
Some to the hounded-hare the sinews strain,
And fleet as greyhounds scour along the plain.
At last the hare through all her windings caught
Gets leave to breathe, and breath brings change of thought;
For races some, but more for foot-ball cry,
Mark out their ground, and toss the globe on high;
The well fought field deals many a galling stroke,
And many a chief's o'erthrown, and many a shin is broke.
These active feats, while manly imps essay,
The gentler sex choose out a gentler play;
They form a smiling circle on the green,
Where chuckstones, dolls, and totums, all are seen;
A nest of linnets, a few happy elves,
Run home to see if yet they pick themselves,
Though but an hour ago their throats they cramm'd,
And chirp'd, and cheep'd, and well the mother shamm'd.
Escap'd in happy hour from rod-taught lore,
Their books forgot, nor work remember'd more;
All share the joy, but one imprison'd slave,
Who from offended worth no boon would save.
The dame he said was like a clocking hen,
Who ne'er would let them out when it did rain;
And if again his hands she dar'd to switch,
He'd call her to her face a wrinkl'd witch.
This told a wheedler, much dislik'd by all,
Whom in abhorrence they tale-pyet call,
Who for a raisin or a fig would tell
Faults of a brother he lov'd ne'er so well;
Th' offender's soul no threaten'd pain unbends,
Nor with the dame will his proud heart be friends,
He loves her not; for this the hour of play,
And much-wish'd dinner, both are snatch'd away.
And now the dame in neat white mob is seen,
Her russet gown, silk kerchief, apron clean,
At the school door her tremulous voice is heard,
And the blithe game's unwillingly deferr'd.
From noon till morn rests female toil; save come
The evening hours when lowing cows draw home.
Now the good neighbour walks her friend to see,
And knit an hour, and drink a dish of tea.
She comes unlook'd for,—wheat-bread is to seek,
The baker has none, got no yeast last week;
And little Peggy thinks herself ill sped,
Though she has got a great piece gingerbread.
Home she returns, but disappointment's trace
Darkens her eye, and lengthens all her face;
She whispers lowly in her sister's ear,
Scarce can restrain the glistening, swelling tear.
The mother marks, and to the milk-house goes,
Blythe Peggy smiles, she well the errand knows;
There from the bowl where cream so coolly swims.
The future butter generously skims,
And, flour commixing, forms a rural bread
That for the wheaten loaf oft stands in stead;
Cup after cup sends steaming circles round,
And oft the weak tea's in the full pot drown'd;
It matters not, for while their news they tell
The mind's content, and all things move on well.
The sun has now his saffron robe put on,
Stept from his chariot that with rubies shone,
The glittering monarch gains the western gate,
And for a moment shines in regal state;
His streaming mantle floats along the sky,
While he glides softly from the gazing eye;
From saffron tinge to yellow soon it flew,
Sea-green the next, and then to darkest blue.
Now different cares employ the village train,
The rich in cattle press the milky vein;
When, lo! a voice sends direful notes around,
And sharp vexation mingles in the sound;
'Tis little Peggy, she the pail would fill,
And on old Hawky try her early skill.
She strok'd and clapp'd her, but she'd not allow;
The well known hand best pleased the knowing cow;
Tho' cabbage leaves before her band was cast,
Hawky refus'd the coaxing rich repast;
And when the little hand unapt she found,
She kick'd, and whelm'd her on the slippery ground.
Along yon hedge now mouldering and decay'd,
In gather'd heaps you see the fragments laid;
Piled up with care to swell the nightly blaze,
And in the widow's hut a fire to raise.
See where she comes with her blue apron full,
Crown'd with some scatter'd locks of dingy wool.
In years she seems, and on her well patch'd clothes
Want much has added to her other woes.
There is a poor-house; but some little pride
Forbids her there her humbled head to hide;
O'er former scenes of better days she runs,
And every thing like degradation shuns!
Now hooded Eve slow gliding comes in view,
Busied in threading pearls of diamond dew;
Waking the flowers that early close the eye,
And giving drops to those that else would die.
And what is man but such a tender flower,
That buds, blooms, fades, and dies within the hour?
Where round yon cottage the rosemary grows,
And turncap lilies flaunt beside the rose,
Two aged females turn the weary wheel,
And, as they turn, their slumbering thoughts reveal:
“How long is't, think ye, since th' old style was lost?
Poor England may remember't to her cost!
E'er since that time the weather has grown cold,
(For Jane forgets that she is now grown old).
I knew when I liv'd servant at Woodmile,
So scorching hot the weather was in April,
The cows would startle, and by ten o'clock
My master us'd his horses to unyoke;
'Tis not so now; the sun has lost its power;
The very apples now-a-days are sour!
Could not the Parson tell the reason why
There are such changes both in earth and sky?”
“'Tis not these only,” Margaret replied,
“For many a change besides have I espied.
Look at the girls!—they all dress now-a-days
Like them fine folk who act them nonsense plays!
No more the decent mob surrounds the face,
Border'd with edging, or bit good bone-lace;
Gauze flappets soon—that will not last a day—
We'll see them flaunting whilst they're making hay!
All things are chang'd, the world's turned upside down,
And every servant wears a cotton gown,
Bit flimsy things, that have no strength to wear,
And will like any blotting-paper tear!
I made my Nelly a half-worsted gown,
She slighting told me 't would not do in town!
This pride! this pride! it sure must have a fall,
And bring some heavy judgment on us all!
They're grown so bold too, and their lads allow,
When courting them, to skulk behind a cow,
Till all's in bed. My John, when courting me,
Us'd after supper to come manfully;
For oft he us'd to say he knew no place
Where honesty need fear to shew its face.
No more it need! My master us'd to cry,—
He fear'd but two things—to turn thief, and lie.”
The leading crow her colony brings home,
And two by two they seek their leafy dome.
Of all the branches that invite to rest,
Each loves the one that hangs above its nest;
What though of rudest architecture made,
Nor thorns surrounding nor with clay inlaid,
Yet 'tis the spot where infant days began,
That thus attaches both the crow and man!
Now on the green the youth their gambols keep,
Stretching their sinews in the bounding leap;
Others the wrestler's glory would maintain,
Twist the strong nerve and fill the swelling vein;
One youth his pipe blows from the rocky hill,
Seated like Pan above the clacking mill;
Another strikes the violin's cheerful string,
Light to the dance the bounding virgins spring:
'Tis most part nature, yet some art is found
When one—two—three lies heavy on the ground;
For 'tis not airy feet which seem to fly,
Then come descended quivering from the sky,
Nor form that every Grace was known to bend,
Nor foot that every feathered Hour would lend,
Has any merit here;—but feet of sound,
Which tabour-like re-echo on the ground;
Or as the drum a certain sound repeats,
Flutters now low, and then in thunder beats;
From Nature and from Art how wide the sphere!
Courts unimprov'd would be what you see here.
Now Eve had sprinkled every flower with dew,
And her gauze hood was wet and dripping through;
A light grey cloak to the warm fleece allied,
Her chilly fingers close and closer tied,
That, with a fur-lined cap, the ears' delight,
Was given her by her elder sister Night,
From walks retired, that shun the inquiring view,
A faithful couple to the shades withdrew.
The maid had every blush that bloom can give,
Where youth fresh glowing bids the blossom live,
And the fair cheek, with lilies all bespread,
Shades the full rose, and hides its bolder red,
Pure as the drop that in the early morn
Hangs with such sweetness smiling on the thorn,
Artless as youth before the cranky wile
Shadows the frown, or plays within the smile;
She moves, the wonder of the rural plain,
And many a sigh steals to her ear in vain.
A youth there was like her, of better mould,
Whose soul deem'd lightly of the weight of gold.
Around his birth some favouring fortune shone,
Which some call merit, though no way their own;
The Church was laid out as his rising line,
Himself delighting in the text divine;
That text, at home by country masters taught,
Might stint the learning but keep back the fault,
For sure great knowledge we should all despise,
Unless the man be virtuous as he's wise.
The mother's eye had long o'er all her son
With many a fear, and much observance run,
Seen where beneath the elms a path was worn,—
Mark'd him at pensive eve, and laughing morn
Still seek the shade,—now with sad step, and slow,
With folded arms, and head declining low;
Then livelier thoughts awake a quicker pace,
And hope breaks out and glows along his face.
Thus to the partner of her thirty years
She soft began:—Thou calmer of my fears,
Oft has thy firmer mind my s