Evening -
Evening
Now weary labourers perceive, well pleased,
The shadows lengthen, and th' oppressive day
With all its toil fast wearing to an end.
The sun, far in the west, with sidelong beam
Plays on the yellow head of the round haycock,
And fields are chequered with fantastic shapes
Of tree, or shrub, or gate, or rugged stone,
All lengthened out in antic disproportion
Upon the darkened grass. — —
They finish out their long and toilsome task,
Then, gathering up their rakes and scattered coats,
With the less cumbrous fragments of their feast,
Return right gladly to their peaceful homes.
The village, lone and silent through the day,
Receiving from the fields its merry bands,
Sends forth its evening sound, confused but cheerful;
Whilst dogs and children, eager housewives' tongues,
And true-love ditties, in no plaintive strain
By shrill-voiced maid at open window sung;
The lowing of the home-returning kine,
The herd's low droning trump, and tinkling bell
Tied to the collar of his favourite sheep,
Make no contemptible variety
To ears not over-nice. — —
With careless lounging gait, the sauntering youth
Upon his sweetheart's open window leans,
And, as she turns about her buzzing wheel,
Diverts her with his jokes and harmless taunts.
Close by the cottage-door, with placid mien,
The old man sits upon his seat of turf,
His staff with crooked head laid by his side,
Which oft the younger race in wanton sport,
Gambolling round him, slyly steal away,
And, straddling o'er it, show their horsemanship
By raising round the clouds of summer sand,
While still he smiles, yet chides them for the trick.
His silver locks upon his shoulders spread,
And not ungraceful is his stoop of age.
No stranger passes him without regard;
And every neighbour stops to wish him well,
And ask him his opinion of the weather.
They fret not at the length of his discourse,
But listen with respect to his remarks
Upon the various seasons he remembers;
For well he knows the many divers signs
Which do foretell high winds, or rain, or drought,
Or aught that may affect the rising crop.
The silken-clad, who courtly breeding boast,
Their own discourse still sweetest to their ears,
May grumble at the old man's lengthened story,
But here it is not so. — —
From every chimney mounts the curling smoke,
Muddy and grey, of the new evening fire;
On every window smokes the family supper,
Set out to cool by the attentive housewife,
While cheerful groups at every door convened
Bawl 'cross the narrow lane the parish news,
And oft the bursting laugh disturbs the air.
But see who comes to set them all agag!
The weary-footed pedlar with his pack.
How stiff he bends beneath his bulky load!
Covered with dust, slipshod, and out at elbows;
His greasy hat sits backward on his head;
His thin straight hair divided on his brow
Hangs lank on either side his glistening cheeks,
And woebegone yet vacant is his face.
His box he opens and displays his ware.
Full many a varied row of precious stones
Cast forth their dazzling lustre to the light.
To the desiring maiden's wishful eye
The ruby necklace shows its tempting blaze;
The china buttons, stamped with love-device,
Attract the notice of the gaping youth;
Whilst streaming garters, fastened to a pole,
Aloft in air their gaudy stripes display,
And from afar the distant stragglers lure.
The children leave their play and round him flock;
E'en sober aged grand-dame quits her seat,
Where by the door she twines her lengthened threads,
Her spindle stops, and lays her distaff by,
Then joins with step sedate the curious throng.
She praises much the fashions of her youth,
And scorns each gaudy nonsense of the day;
Yet not ill-pleased the glossy ribband views,
Uprolled, and changing hues with every fold,
New measured out to deck her daughter's head.
Now red but languid, the last weakly beams
Of the departing sun across the lawn
Deep gild the top of the long sweepy ridge,
And shed a scattered brightness, bright but cheerless,
Between the openings of the rifted hills;
Which, like the farewell looks of some dear friend,
That speak him kind, yet sadden as they smile,
But only serve to deepen the low vale,
And make the shadows of the night more gloomy.
The varied noises of the cheerful village
By slow degrees now faintly die away,
And more distinct each feeble sound is heard
That gently steals adown the river's bed,
Or through the wood comes with the ruffling breeze.
The white mist rises from the swampy glens,
And from the dappled skirting of the heavens
Looks out the evening star. — —
The lover skulking in the neighbouring copse
(Whose half-seen form shown through the thickened air,
Large and majestic, makes the traveller start,
And spreads the story of the haunted grove),
Curses the owl, whose loud ill-omened scream,
With ceaseless spite, robes from his watchful ear
The well-known footsteps of his darling maid;
And, fretful, chases from his face the night-fly,
Who, buzzing round his head, doth often skim,
With fluttering wing, across his glowing cheek:
For all but him in deep and balmy sleep
Forget the toil of the oppressive day;
Shut is the door of every scattered cot,
And silence dwells within.
Now weary labourers perceive, well pleased,
The shadows lengthen, and th' oppressive day
With all its toil fast wearing to an end.
The sun, far in the west, with sidelong beam
Plays on the yellow head of the round haycock,
And fields are chequered with fantastic shapes
Of tree, or shrub, or gate, or rugged stone,
All lengthened out in antic disproportion
Upon the darkened grass. — —
They finish out their long and toilsome task,
Then, gathering up their rakes and scattered coats,
With the less cumbrous fragments of their feast,
Return right gladly to their peaceful homes.
The village, lone and silent through the day,
Receiving from the fields its merry bands,
Sends forth its evening sound, confused but cheerful;
Whilst dogs and children, eager housewives' tongues,
And true-love ditties, in no plaintive strain
By shrill-voiced maid at open window sung;
The lowing of the home-returning kine,
The herd's low droning trump, and tinkling bell
Tied to the collar of his favourite sheep,
Make no contemptible variety
To ears not over-nice. — —
With careless lounging gait, the sauntering youth
Upon his sweetheart's open window leans,
And, as she turns about her buzzing wheel,
Diverts her with his jokes and harmless taunts.
Close by the cottage-door, with placid mien,
The old man sits upon his seat of turf,
His staff with crooked head laid by his side,
Which oft the younger race in wanton sport,
Gambolling round him, slyly steal away,
And, straddling o'er it, show their horsemanship
By raising round the clouds of summer sand,
While still he smiles, yet chides them for the trick.
His silver locks upon his shoulders spread,
And not ungraceful is his stoop of age.
No stranger passes him without regard;
And every neighbour stops to wish him well,
And ask him his opinion of the weather.
They fret not at the length of his discourse,
But listen with respect to his remarks
Upon the various seasons he remembers;
For well he knows the many divers signs
Which do foretell high winds, or rain, or drought,
Or aught that may affect the rising crop.
The silken-clad, who courtly breeding boast,
Their own discourse still sweetest to their ears,
May grumble at the old man's lengthened story,
But here it is not so. — —
From every chimney mounts the curling smoke,
Muddy and grey, of the new evening fire;
On every window smokes the family supper,
Set out to cool by the attentive housewife,
While cheerful groups at every door convened
Bawl 'cross the narrow lane the parish news,
And oft the bursting laugh disturbs the air.
But see who comes to set them all agag!
The weary-footed pedlar with his pack.
How stiff he bends beneath his bulky load!
Covered with dust, slipshod, and out at elbows;
His greasy hat sits backward on his head;
His thin straight hair divided on his brow
Hangs lank on either side his glistening cheeks,
And woebegone yet vacant is his face.
His box he opens and displays his ware.
Full many a varied row of precious stones
Cast forth their dazzling lustre to the light.
To the desiring maiden's wishful eye
The ruby necklace shows its tempting blaze;
The china buttons, stamped with love-device,
Attract the notice of the gaping youth;
Whilst streaming garters, fastened to a pole,
Aloft in air their gaudy stripes display,
And from afar the distant stragglers lure.
The children leave their play and round him flock;
E'en sober aged grand-dame quits her seat,
Where by the door she twines her lengthened threads,
Her spindle stops, and lays her distaff by,
Then joins with step sedate the curious throng.
She praises much the fashions of her youth,
And scorns each gaudy nonsense of the day;
Yet not ill-pleased the glossy ribband views,
Uprolled, and changing hues with every fold,
New measured out to deck her daughter's head.
Now red but languid, the last weakly beams
Of the departing sun across the lawn
Deep gild the top of the long sweepy ridge,
And shed a scattered brightness, bright but cheerless,
Between the openings of the rifted hills;
Which, like the farewell looks of some dear friend,
That speak him kind, yet sadden as they smile,
But only serve to deepen the low vale,
And make the shadows of the night more gloomy.
The varied noises of the cheerful village
By slow degrees now faintly die away,
And more distinct each feeble sound is heard
That gently steals adown the river's bed,
Or through the wood comes with the ruffling breeze.
The white mist rises from the swampy glens,
And from the dappled skirting of the heavens
Looks out the evening star. — —
The lover skulking in the neighbouring copse
(Whose half-seen form shown through the thickened air,
Large and majestic, makes the traveller start,
And spreads the story of the haunted grove),
Curses the owl, whose loud ill-omened scream,
With ceaseless spite, robes from his watchful ear
The well-known footsteps of his darling maid;
And, fretful, chases from his face the night-fly,
Who, buzzing round his head, doth often skim,
With fluttering wing, across his glowing cheek:
For all but him in deep and balmy sleep
Forget the toil of the oppressive day;
Shut is the door of every scattered cot,
And silence dwells within.
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