And oft as morning from her lattice peeps To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee To drink the dewy breath Of fields left fragrant then,

In solitudes, where no frequented paths But what thine own foot makes betray thine home, Stealing obtrusive there To meditate thy end;

By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks, With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge, Which woo the winds to play, And with them dance for joy;

And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods, Where waterlilies spread their oily leaves, On which, as wont, the fly Oft battens in the sun;

Where leans the mossy willow half way o'er, On which the shepherd crawls astride to throw His angle, clear of weeds That crown the water's brim;

Or crispy hills and hollows scant of sward, Where step by step the patient, lonely boy, Hath cut rude flights of stairs To climb their steepy sides;

* * * * *

Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woods With tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath, Some sickly cankered leaf Let go its hold and die.

And now the bickering storm, with sudden start, In flirting fits of anger carps aloud, Thee urging to thine end, Sore wept by troubled skies.

And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delight To show me visions of most gorgeous dyes, Haply forgetting now They but prepare thy shroud;

Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades, Improvident of wealth, till every bough Burns with thy mellow touch Disorderly divine.

Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream Droop faintly, and so reckon for thine end, As sad the winds sink low In dirges for their queen;

While in the moment of their weary pause, To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark Starts from his shielding clod, Snatching sweet scraps of song.

Thy life is waning now, and Silence tries To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds, As stooping low she bends, Forming with leaves thy grave;

To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods, Till parch-lipped Summer pines in drought away; Then from thine ivied trance Awake to glories new.



MAY

Now comes the bonny May, dancing and skipping Across the stepping-stones of meadow streams, Bearing no kin to April showers a-weeping, But constant Sunshine as her servant seems. Her heart is up—her sweetness, all a-maying, Streams in her face, like gems on Beauty's breast; The swains are sighing all, and well-a-daying, Lovesick and gazing on their lovely guest. The Sunday paths, to pleasant places leading, Are graced by couples linking arm in arm, Sweet smiles enjoying or some book a-reading, Where Love and Beauty are the constant charm; For while the bonny May is dancing by, Beauty delights the ear, and Beauty fills the eye.

Birds sing and build, and Nature scorns alone On May's young festival to be a widow; The children, too, have pleasures all their own, In gathering lady-smocks along the meadow. The little brook sings loud among the pebbles, So very loud, that water-flowers, which lie Where many a silver curdle boils and dribbles, Dance too with joy as it goes singing by. Among the pasture mole-hills maidens stoop To pluck the luscious marjoram for their bosoms; The greensward's littered o'er with buttercups, And whitethorns, they are breaking down with blossoms. 'T is Nature's livery for the bonny May, Who keeps her court, and all have holiday.

Princess of Months (so Nature's choice ordains,) And Lady of the Summer still she reigns. In spite of April's youth, who charms in tears, And rosy June, who wins with blushing face; July, sweet shepherdess, who wreathes the shears Of shepherds with her flowers of winning grace; And sun-tanned August, with her swarthy charms, The beautiful and rich; and pastoral, gay September, with her pomp of fields and farms; And wild November's sybilline array;— In spite of Beauty's calendar, the Year Garlands with Beauty's prize the bonny May. Where'er she goes, fair Nature hath no peer, And months do love their queen when she's away.



MEMORY

I would not that my memory all should die, And pass away with every common lot: I would not that my humble dust should lie In quite a strange and unfrequented spot, By all unheeded and by all forgot, With nothing save the heedless winds to sigh, And nothing but the dewy morn to weep About my grave, far hid from the world's eye: I fain would have some friend to wander nigh And find a path to where my ashes sleep— Not the cold heart that merely passes by, To read who lies beneath, but such as keep Past memories warm with deeds of other years, And pay to friendship some few friendly tears.

"The Rural Muse" sold tolerably well for some months, and Mr. Whittaker told Mr. Emmerson that "he thought they would get off" the first edition. But the time was rapidly approaching when literary fame or failure, the constancy or fickleness of friends, the pangs of poverty or the joys of competence were to be alike matters of indifference to John Clare. He began to write in a piteous strain to Mrs. Emmerson, Mr. Taylor, and Dr. Darling, all of whom assured him of their deep sympathy, and promised assistance. Mrs. Emmerson, although completely prostrated by repeated and serious attacks of illness, sent him cheering letters so long as she could hold her pen, while Mr. Taylor wrote:—

"If you think that you can now come here for the advice of Dr. Darling I shall be very happy to see you, and any one who may attend you." The attacks of melancholy from which he had suffered occasionally for many years became more frequent and more intense, his language grew wild and incoherent, and at length he failed to recognize his own wife and children and became the subject of all kinds of hallucinations. There were times when he was perfectly rational, and he returned to work in his garden or in his little study with a zest which filled his family and neighbours with eager anticipations of his recovery, but every succeeding attack of his mental malady was more severe than that which preceded it. Of all that followed little need be said, for it is too painful to be dwelt upon, and the story of Clare's life hurries therefore to its close. His lunacy having been duly certified, Mr. Taylor and other of Clare's old friends in London charged themselves with the responsibility of removing him to the private asylum of Dr. Allen at High Beech, in Epping Forest. Mr. Taylor sending a trustworthy person to Northborough to accompany him to London and take care of him on the road. This was in June or July, 1837, and Clare remained under Mr. Allen's care for four years. Allan Cunningham, Mr. S. C. Hall, and others of Clare's literary friends energetically appealed to the public on behalf of the unhappy bard. Mr. Hall in the "Book of Gems" for 1838 wrote:—

"It is not yet too late: although he has given indications of a brain breaking up, a very envied celebrity may be obtained by some wealthy and good Samaritan who would rescue him from the Cave of Despair," adding, "Strawberry Hill might be gladly sacrificed for the fame of having saved Chatterton."

This appeal brought Mr. Hall a letter from the Marquis of Northampton, whose name is now for the first time associated with that of the poet. The Marquis informed Mr. Hall that he was not one of Clare's exceeding admirers, but he was struck and shocked by what that gentleman had said about "our county poet," and thought it would be "a disgrace to the county," to which Clare was "a credit," if he were left in a state of poverty. The county was neither very wealthy nor very literary, but his lordship thought that a collection of Clare's poems might be published by subscription, and if that suggestion were adopted he would take ten or twenty copies, or he would give a donation of money, if direct assistance of that kind were preferred. Mr. Hall says in his "Memories,":—

"The plan was not carried out, and if the Marquis gave any aid of any kind to the peasant-poet the world, and I verily believe the poet himself, remained in ignorance of the amount."



AT HIGH BEECH ASYLUM

All that was possible was done for Clare at the house of Dr. Allen, one of the early reformers of the treatment of lunatics. He was kept pretty constantly employed in the garden, and soon grew stout and robust. After a time he was allowed to stroll beyond the grounds of the asylum and to ramble about the forest. He was perfectly harmless, and would sometimes carry on a conversation in a rational manner, always, however, losing himself in the end in absolute nonsense. In March, 1841, he wrote a long and intelligible letter to Mrs. Clare, almost the only peculiarity in which is that every word is begun with a capital letter. There is no doubt that at this time he was possessed with the idea that he had two wives—Patty, whom he called his second wife, and his life-long ideal, Mary Joyce. In the letter just referred to he begins "My dear wife Patty," and in a postscript says, "Give my love to the dear boy who wrote to me, and to her who is never forgotten." He wrote verses which he told Dr. Allen were for his wife Mary, and that he intended to take them to her. He made several unsuccessful attempts to escape in the early part of 1841, but in July of that year he contrived to evade both watchers and pursuers, and reached Peterborough after being four days and three nights on the road in a penniless condition, and being so near to dying of starvation that he was compelled to eat grass like the beasts of the field. The day after his return to Northborough he wrote what he called an account of his journey, prefacing the narrative by this remark, "Returned home out of Essex and found no Mary." Mr. Martin gives this extraordinary document in his "Life of Clare." It is a weird, pathetic and pitiful story, "a tragedy all too deep for tears." Having finished the journal of his escape he addressed it with a letter to "Mary Clare, Glinton." In this letter he says:—

"I am not so lonely as I was in Essex, for here I can see Glinton Church, and feeling that my Mary is safe, if not happy I am gratified. Though my home is no home to me, my hopes are not entirely hopeless while even the memory of Mary lives so near to me. God bless you, my dear Mary! Give my love to our dear beautiful family and to your mother, and believe me, as ever I have been and ever shall be, my dearest Mary, your affectionate husband, John Clare." Truly,

"Love's not Time's fool: though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come, Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom."



AT NORTHAMPTON

Clare remained for a short time at Northborough, and was then removed under medical advice to the County Lunatic Asylum at Northampton, of which establishment he continued an inmate until his death in 1864. During the whole of that time the charge made by the authorities of the Asylum for his maintenance was paid either by Earl Fitzwilliam or by his son, the Hon. G. W. Fitzwilliam. It is to the credit of the managers of the institution that although the amount paid on his behalf was that usually charged for patients of the humbler classes, Clare was always treated in every respect as a "gentleman patient." He had his favourite window corner in the common sitting room, commanding a view of Northampton and the valley of the Nen, and books and writing materials were provided for him. Unless the Editor's memory is at fault, he was always addressed deferentially as "Mr. Clare," both by the officers of the Asylum and the townspeople; and when Her Majesty passed through Northampton, in 1844, in her progress to Burleigh, a seat was specially reserved for the poet near one of the triumphal arches. There was something very nearly akin to tenderness in the kindly sympathy which was shown for him, and his most whimsical utterances were listened to with gravity, lest he should feel hurt or annoyed. He was classified in the Asylum books among the "harmless," and for several years was allowed to walk in the fields or go into the town at his own pleasure. His favourite resting place at Northampton was a niche under the roof of the spacious portico of All Saints' Church, and here he would sometimes sit for hours, musing, watching the children at play, or jotting down passing thoughts in his pocket note-book.



THE APPROACHING END

In course of time it was found expedient not to allow him to wander beyond the Asylum grounds. He wrote occasionally to his son Charles, but appears never to have been visited by either relatives or friends. The neglect of his wife and children is inexplicable. It was no doubt while smarting under this treatment that he penned the lines given below, of which an eloquent critic has said that "in their sublime sadness and incoherence they sum up, with marvellous effect, the one great misfortune of the poet's life—his mental isolation— his inability to make his deepest character and thoughts intelligible to others. They read like the wail of a nature cut off from all access to other minds, concentrated at its own centre, and conscious of the impassable gulf which separates it from universal humanity:"—

I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows? My friends forsake me, like a memory lost. I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise. Into the living sea of waking dream, Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best Are strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod— For scenes where woman never smiled or wept— There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie, The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

Clare's physical powers slowly declined, and at length he had to be wheeled about the Asylum grounds in a Bath chair. As he felt his end approaching he would frequently say "I have lived too long," or "I want to go home." Until within three days of his death he managed to reach his favourite seat in the window, but was then seized with paralysis, and on the afternoon of the 20th of May, 1864, without a struggle or a sigh his spirit passed away. He was taken home.

In accordance with Clare's own wish, his remains were interred in the churchyard at Helpstone, by the side of those of his father and mother, under the shade of a sycamore tree. The expenses of the funeral were paid by the Hon. G. W. Fitzwilliam. Two or three years afterwards a coped monument of Ketton stone was erected over Clare's remains. It bears this inscription:—

"Sacred to the Memory of John Clare, the Northamptonshire Peasant Poet. Born July 13, 1793. Died May 20th, 1864. A Poet is born, not made."

In 1869, another memorial was erected in the principal street of Helpstone. The style is Early English, and it bears suitable inscriptions from Clare's Works.



CONCLUSION

In looking back upon such a life as Clare's, so prominent are the human interests which confront us, that those of poetry, as one of the fine arts, are not unlikely to sink for a time completely out of sight. The long and painful strain upon our sympathy to which we are subject as we read the story is such perhaps as the life of no other English poet puts upon us. The spell of the great moral problems by which the lives of so many of our poets seem to have been more or less surrounded makes itself felt in every step of Clare's career. We are tempted to speak in almost fatalistic language of the disastrous gift of the poetic faculty, and to find in that the source of all Clare's woe. The well-known lines—

We poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness—

ring in our ears, and we remember that these are the words of a poet endowed with a well-balanced mind, and who knew far less than Clare the experience of

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills.

In Clare's case we are tempted to say that the Genius of Poetry laid her fearful hand upon a nature too weak to bear her gifts and at the same time to master the untoward circumstances in which his lot was cast. But too well does poor Clare's history illustrate that interpretation of the myth which pictures Great Pan secretly busy among the reeds and fashioning, with sinister thought, the fatal pipe which shall "make a poet out of a man." And yet it may be doubted whether, on the whole, Clare's lot in life, and that of the wife and family who were dependent upon him, was aggravated by the poetic genius which we are thus trying to make the scapegoat for his misfortunes. It may be that the publicity acquired by the Northamptonshire Peasant Poet simply brings to the surface the average life of the English agricultural labourer in the person of one who was more than usually sensitive to suffering. Unhappily there is too good reason to believe that the privations to which Clare and his household were subject cannot be looked upon as exceptional in the class of society to which both husband and wife belonged, although they naturally acquire a deeper shade from the prospect of competency and comfort which Clare's gifts seemed to promise. In this light, while the miseries of the poet are none the less real and claim none the less of our sympathy, the moral problem of Clare's woes belongs rather to humanity at large than to poets in particular. We are at liberty to hope, then, that the world is all the richer, and that Clare's lot was none the harder, by reason of that dispensation of Providence which has given to English literature such a volume as "The Rural Muse." How many are there who not only fail, as Clare failed, to rise above their circumstances, but who, in addition, leave nothing behind them to enrich posterity! We are indeed the richer for Clare, but with what travail of soul to himself only true poets can know.



ASYLUM POEMS

'TIS SPRING, MY LOVE, 'TIS SPRING

'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring, And the birds begin to sing: If 'twas Winter, left alone with you, Your bonny form and face Would make a Summer place, And be the finest flower that ever grew.

'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring, And the hazel catkins hing, While the snowdrop has its little blebs of dew; But that's not so white within As your bosom's hidden skin— That sweetest of all flowers that ever grew.

The sun arose from bed, All strewn with roses red, But the brightest and the loveliest crimson place Is not so fresh and fair, Or so sweet beyond compare, As thy blushing, ever smiling, happy face.

I love Spring's early flowers, And their bloom in its first hours, But they never half so bright or lovely seem As the blithe and happy grace Of my darling's blushing face, And the happiness of love's young dream.



LOVE OF NATURE

I love thee, Nature, with a boundless love! The calm of earth, the storm of roaring woods! The winds breathe happiness where'er I rove! There's life's own music in the swelling floods! My heart is in the thunder-melting clouds, The snow-cap't mountain, and the rolling sea! And hear ye not the voice where darkness shrouds The heavens? There lives happiness for me!

My pulse beats calmer while His lightnings play! My eye, with earth's delusions waxing dim, Clears with the brightness of eternal day! The elements crash round me! It is He! Calmly I hear His voice and never start. From Eve's posterity I stand quite free, Nor feel her curses rankle round my heart.

Love is not here. Hope is, and at His voice— The rolling thunder and the roaring sea— My pulses leap, and with the hills rejoice; Then strife and turmoil are at end for me. No matter where life's ocean leads me on, For Nature is my mother, and I rest, When tempests trouble and the sun is gone, Like to a weary child upon her breast.



THE INVITATION

Come hither, my dear one, my choice one, and rare one, And let us be walking the meadows so fair, Where on pilewort and daisies the eye fondly gazes, And the wind plays so sweet in thy bonny brown hair.

Come with thy maiden eye, lay silks and satins by; Come in thy russet or grey cotton gown; Come to the meads, dear, where flags, sedge, and reeds appear, Rustling to soft winds and bowing low down.

Come with thy parted hair, bright eyes, and forehead bare; Come to the whitethorn that grows in the lane; To banks of primroses, where sweetness reposes, Come, love, and let us be happy again.

Come where the violet flowers, come where the morning showers Pearl on the primrose and speedwell so blue; Come to that clearest brook that ever runs round the nook Where you and I pledged our first love so true.



TO THE LARK

Bird of the morn, When roseate clouds begin To show the opening dawn Thou gladly sing'st it in, And o'er the sweet green fields and happy vales Thy pleasant song is heard, mixed with the morning gales.

Bird of the morn, What time the ruddy sun Smiles on the pleasant corn Thy singing is begun, Heartfelt and cheering over labourers' toil, Who chop in coppice wild and delve the russet soil.

Bird of the sun, How dear to man art thou! When morning has begun To gild the mountain's brow, How beautiful it is to see thee soar so blest, Winnowing thy russet wings above thy twitchy nest.

Bird of the Summer's day, How oft I stand to hear Thee sing thy airy lay, With music wild and clear, Till thou becom'st a speck upon the sky, Small as the clods that crumble where I lie.

Thou bird of happiest song, The Spring and Summer too Are thine, the months along, The woods and vales to view. If climes were evergreen thy song would be The sunny music of eternal glee.



GRAVES OF INFANTS

Infants' gravemounds are steps of angels, where Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose. God is their parent, so they need no tear; He takes them to his bosom from earth's woes, A bud their lifetime and a flower their close. Their spirits are the Iris of the skies, Needing no prayers; a sunset's happy close. Gone are the bright rays of their soft blue eyes; Flowers weep in dew-drops o'er them, and the gale gently sighs.

Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower, Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye. Each death Was tolled on flowers as Summer gales went by. They bowed and trembled, yet they heaved no sigh, And the sun smiled to show the end was well. Infants have nought to weep for ere they die; All prayers are needless, beads they need not tell, White flowers their mourners are, Nature their passing bell.



BONNIE LASSIE O!

O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O! To meet the cooler air and join an angel there, With the dark dishevelled hair, Bonny lassie O!

The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O! Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see The shed I've made for thee, Bonny lassie O!

'T is agen the running brook, bonny lassie O! In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky, And a bush to keep us dry, Bonny lassie O!

There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O! There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold, And the arum leaves unrolled, Bonny lassie O!

O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O! With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin Blushing, thy praise to win, Bonny lassie O!

I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O! When the bee sips in the beau, and grey willow branches lean, And the moonbeam looks between, Bonny lassie O!



PHOEBE OF THE SCOTTISH GLEN

Agen I'll take my idle pen And sing my bonny mountain maid— Sweet Phoebe of the Scottish glen, Nor of her censure feel afraid. I'll charm her ear with beauty's praise, And please her eye with songs agen— The ballads of our early days— To Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

There never was a fairer thing All Scotland's glens and mountains through. The siller gowans of the Spring, Besprent with pearls of mountain dew, The maiden blush upon the brere, Far distant from the haunts of men, Are nothing half so sweet or dear As Phoebe of the Scottish glen.

How handsome is her naked foot, Moist with the pearls of Summer dew: The siller daisy's nothing to 't, Nor hawthorn flowers so white to view, She's sweeter than the blooming brere, That blossoms far away from men: No flower in Scotland's half so dear As Phoebe of the Scottish glen.



MAID OF THE WILDERNESS

Maid of the wilderness, Sweet in thy rural dress, Fond thy rich lips I press Under this tree.

Morning her health bestows, Sprinkles dews on the rose, That by the bramble grows: Maid happy be. Womanhood round thee glows, Wander with me.

The restharrow blooming, The sun just a-coming, Grass and bushes illuming, And the spreading oak tree;

Come hither, sweet Nelly, * * * The morning is loosing Its incense for thee. The pea-leaf has dews on; Love wander with me.

We'll walk by the river, And love more than ever; There's nought shall dissever My fondness from thee.

Soft ripples the water, Flags rustle like laughter, And fish follow after; Leaves drop from the tree. Nelly, Beauty's own daughter, Love, wander with me.



MARY BATEMAN

My love she wears a cotton plaid, A bonnet of the straw; Her cheeks are leaves of roses spread, Her lips are like the haw. In truth she is as sweet a maid As true love ever saw.

Her curls are ever in my eyes, As nets by Cupid flung; Her voice will oft my sleep surprise, More sweet than ballad sung. O Mary Bateman's curling hair! I wake, and there is nothing there.

I wake, and fall asleep again, The same delights in visions rise; There's nothing can appear more plain Than those rose cheeks and those bright eyes. I wake again, and all alone Sits Darkness on his ebon throne.

All silent runs the silver Trent, The cobweb veils are all wet through, A silver bead's on every bent, On every leaf a bleb of dew. I sighed, the moon it shone so clear: Was Mary Bateman walking here?



WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN?

How many times Spring blossoms meek Have faded on the land Since last I kissed that pretty cheek, Caressed that happy hand. Eight time the green's been painted white With daisies in the grass Since I looked on thy eyes so bright, And pressed my bonny lass.

The ground lark sung about the farms, The blackbird in the wood, When fast locked in each other's arms By hedgerow thorn we stood. It was a pleasant Sabbath day, The sun shone bright and round, His light through dark oaks passed, and lay Like gold upon the ground.

How beautiful the blackbird sung, And answered soft the thrush; And sweet the pearl-like dew-drops hung Upon the white thorn bush. O happy day, eight years ago! We parted without pain: The blackbird sings, primroses blow; When shall we meet again?



THE LOVER'S INVITATION

Now the wheat is in the ear, and the rose is on the brere, And bluecaps so divinely blue, with poppies of bright scarlet hue, Maiden, at the close o' eve, wilt thou, dear, thy cottage leave, And walk with one that loves thee?

When the even's tiny tears bead upon the grassy spears, And the spider's lace is wet with its pinhead blebs of dew, Wilt thou lay thy work aside and walk by brooklets dim descried, Where I delight to love thee?

While thy footfall lightly press'd tramples by the skylark's nest, And the cockle's streaky eyes mark the snug place where it lies, Mary, put thy work away, and walk at dewy close o' day With me to kiss and love thee.

There's something in the time so sweet, when lovers in the evening meet, The air so still, the sky so mild, like slumbers of the cradled child, The moon looks over fields of love, among the ivy sleeps the dove: To see thee is to love thee.



NATURE'S DARLING

Sweet comes the morning In Nature's adorning, And bright shines the dew on the buds of the thorn, Where Mary Ann rambles Through the sloe trees and brambles; She's sweeter than wild flowers that open at morn; She's a rose in the dew; She's pure and she's true; She's as gay as the poppy that grows in the corn.

Her eyes they are bright, Her bosom's snow white, And her voice is like songs of the birds in the grove. She's handsome and bonny, And fairer than any, And her person and actions are Nature's and love. She has the bloom of all roses, She's the breath of sweet posies, She's as pure as the brood in the nest of the dove.

Of Earth's fairest daughters, Voiced like falling waters, She walks down the meadows, than blossoms more fair. O her bosom right fair is, And her rose cheek so rare is, And parted and lovely her glossy black hair. Her bosom's soft whiteness! The sun in its brightness Has never been seen so bewilderingly fair.

The dewy grass glitters, The house swallow twitters, And through the sky floats in its visions of bliss; The lark soars on high, On cowslips dews lie, And the last days of Summer are nothing like this. When Mary Ann rambles Through hedgerows and brambles, The soft gales of Spring are the seasons of bliss.



I'LL DREAM UPON THE DAYS TO COME

I'll lay me down on the green sward, Mid yellowcups and speedwell blue, And pay the world no more regard, But be to Nature leal and true. Who break the peace of hapless man But they who Truth and Nature wrong? I'll hear no more of evil's plan, But live with Nature and her song.

Where Nature's lights and shades are green, Where Nature's place is strewn with flowers. Where strife and care are never seen, There I'll retire to happy hours, And stretch my body on the green, And sleep among the flowers in bloom, By eyes of malice seldom seen, And dream upon the days to come.

I'll lay me by the forest green, I'll lay me on the pleasant grass; My life shall pass away unseen; I'll be no more the man I was. The tawny bee upon the flower, The butterfly upon the leaf, Like them I'll live my happy hour, A life of sunshine, bright and brief.

In greenwood hedges, close at hand, Build, brood, and sing the little birds, The happiest things in the green land, While sweetly feed the lowing herds, While softly bleat the roving sheep. Upon the green grass will I lie, A Summer's day, to think and sleep. Or see the clouds sail down the sky.



TO ISABEL

Arise, my Isabel, arise! The sun shoots forth his early ray, The hue of love is in the skies, The birds are singing, come away! O come, my Isabella, come, With inky tendrils hanging low; Thy cheeks like roses just in bloom, That in the healthy Summer glow.

That eye it turns the world away From wanton sport and recklessness; That eye beams with a cheerful ray, And smiles propitiously to bless. O come, my Isabella, dear! O come, and fill these longing arms! Come, let me see thy beauty here, And bend in worship o'er thy charms.

O come, my Isabella, love! My dearest Isabella, come! Thy heart's affection, let me prove, And kiss thy beauty in its bloom. My Isabella, young and fair, Thou darling of my home and heart, Come, love, my bosom's truth to share, And of its being form a part.



THE SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER

How sweet is every lengthening day, And every change of weather, When Summer comes, on skies blue grey, And brings her hosts together, Her flocks of birds, her crowds of flowers, Her sunny-shining water! I dearly love the woodbine bowers, That hide the Shepherd's Daughter— In gown of green or brown or blue, The Shepherd's Daughter, leal and true.

How bonny is her lily breast! How sweet her rosy face! She'd give my aching bosom rest, Where love would find its place. While earth is green, and skies are blue, And sunshine gilds the water, While Summer's sweet and Nature true, I'll love the Shepherd's Daughter— Her nut brown hair, her clear bright eye, My daily thought, my only joy.

She's such a simple, sweet young thing, Dressed in her country costume. My wits had used to know the Spring, Till I saw, and loved, and lost 'em. How quietly the lily lies Upon the deepest water! How sweet to me the Summer skies! And so's the Shepherd's Daughter— With lily breast and rosy face The sweetest maid in any place.

My singing bird, my bonny flower, How dearly could I love thee! To sit with thee one pleasant hour, If thou would'st but approve me! I swear by lilies white and yellow, That flower on deepest water, Would'st thou but make me happy fellow, I'd wed the Shepherd's Daughter! By all that's on the earth or water, I more than love the Shepherd's Daughter.



LASSIE, I LOVE THEE

Lassie, I love thee! The heavens above thee Look downwards to move thee, And prove my love true. My arms round thy waist, love, My head on thy breast, love; By a true man caressed love, Ne'er bid me adieu.

Thy cheek's full o' blushes, Like the rose in the bushes, While my love ardent gushes With over delight. Though clouds may come o'er thee, Sweet maid, I'll adore thee, As I do now before thee: I love thee outright.

It stings me to madness To see thee all gladness, While I'm full of sadness Thy meaning to guess. Thy gown is deep blue, love, In honour of true love: Ever thinking of you, love, My love I'll confess.

My love ever showing, Thy heart worth the knowing, It is like the sun glowing, And hid in thy breast. Thy lover behold me; To my bosom I'll fold thee, For thou, love, thou'st just told me, So here thou may'st rest.



THE GIPSY LASS

Just like the berry brown is my bonny lassie O! And in the smoky camp lives my bonny lassie O! Where the scented woodbine weaves Round the white-thorn's glossy leaves: The sweetest maid on earth is my gipsy lassie O!

The brook it runs so clear by my bonny lassie O! And the blackbird singeth near my bonny lassie O! And there the wild briar rose Wrinkles the clear stream as it flows By the smoky camp of my bonny lassie O!

The groundlark singeth high o'er my bonny lassie O! The nightingale lives nigh my gipsy lassie O! They're with her all the year, By the brook that runs so clear, And there's none in all the world like my gipsy lassie O!

With a bosom white as snow is my gipsy lassie O! With a foot like to the roe is my bonny lassie O! Like the sweet birds she will sing, While echo it will ring: Sure there's none in the world like my bonny lassie O!



AT THE FOOT OF CLIFFORD HILL

Who loves the white-thorn tree, And the river running free? There a maiden stood with me In Summer weather. Near a cottage far from town, While the sun went brightly down O'er the meadows green and brown, We loved together.

How sweet her drapery flowed, While the moor-cock oddly crowed; I took the kiss which love bestowed, Under the white-thorn tree. Soft winds the water curled, The trees their branches furled; Sweetest nook in all the world Is where she stood with me.

Calm came the evening air, The sky was sweet and fair, In the river shadowed there, Close by the hawthorn tree. Round her neck I clasped my arms, And kissed her rosy charms; O'er the flood the hackle swarms, Where the maiden stood with me.

O there's something falls so dear On the music of the ear, Where the river runs so clear, And my lover met with me. At the foot of Clifford Hill Still I hear the clacking mill, And the river's running still Under the trysting tree.



TO MY WIFE—A VALENTINE

O once I had a true love, As blest as I could be: Patty was my turtle dove, And Patty she loved me. We walked the fields together, By roses and woodbine, In Summer's sunshine weather, And Patty she was mine.

We stopped to gather primroses, And violets white and blue, In pastures and green closes All glistening with the dew. We sat upon green mole-hills, Among the daisy flowers, To hear the small birds' merry trills, And share the sunny hours.

The blackbird on her grassy nest We would not scare away, Who nuzzling sat with brooding breast On her eggs for half the day. The chaffinch chirruped on the thorn, And a pretty nest had she; The magpie chattered all the morn From her perch upon the tree.

And I would go to Patty's cot, And Patty came to me; Each knew the other's very thought Under the hawthorn tree. And Patty had a kiss to give, And Patty had a smile, To bid me hope and bid me love, At every stopping stile.

We loved one Summer quite away, And when another came, The cowslip close and sunny day, It found us much the same. We both looked on the selfsame thing, Till both became as one; The birds did in the hedges sing, And happy time went on.

The brambles from the hedge advance, In love with Patty's eyes: On flowers, like ladies at a dance, Flew scores of butterflies. I claimed a kiss at every stile, And had her kind replies. The bees did round the woodbine toil, Where sweet the small wind sighs.

Then Patty was a slight young thing; Now she's long past her teens; And we've been married many springs, And mixed in many scenes. And I'll be true for Patty's sake, And she'll be true for mine; And I this little ballad make, To be her valentine.



MY TRUE LOVE IS A SAILOR

'T was somewhere in the April time, Not long before the May, A-sitting on a bank o' thyme I heard a maiden say, "My true love is a sailor, And ere he went away We spent a year together, And here my lover lay.

The gold furze was in blossom, So was the daisy too; The dew-drops on the little flowers Were emeralds in hue. On this same Summer morning, Though then the Sabbath day, He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, Beneath the whitethorn may.

He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, And said if they would keep They'd tell me of love's fantasies, For dews on them did weep. And I did weep at parting, Which lasted all the week; And when he turned for starting My full heart could not speak.

The same roots grow pol'ant'us' flowers Beneath the same haw-tree; I crop't them in morn's dewy hours, And here love's offerings be. O come to me my sailor beau And ease my aching breast; The storms shall cease to rave and blow, And here thy life find rest."



THE SAILOR'S RETURN

The whitethorn is budding and rushes are green, The ivy leaves rustle around the ash tree, On the sweet sunny bank blue violets are seen, That tremble beneath the wild hum of the bee. The sunbeams they play on the brook's plashy ripples, Like millions of suns in each swirl looking on; The rush nods and bows till its tasseled head tipples Right into the wimpled flood, kissing the stones.

'T was down in the cow pasture, just at the gloaming, I met a young woman sweet tempered and mild, I said "Pretty maiden, say, where are you roving?" "I'm walking at even," she answered, and smiled. "Here my sweetheart and I gathered posies at even; It's eight years ago since they sent him to sea. Wild flowers hung with dew are like angels from heaven: They look up in my face and keep whispering to me.

They whisper the tales that were told by my true love; In the evening and morning they glisten with dew; They say (bonny blossoms) 'I'll ne'er get a new love; I love her; she's kindly.' I say, 'I love him too.'" The passing-by stranger's a stranger no longer; He kissed off the teardrop which fell from her e'e; With blue-jacket and trousers he is bigger and stronger; 'T is her own constant Willy returned from the sea.



BIRDS, WHY ARE YE SILENT?

Why are ye silent, Birds? Where do ye fly? Winter's not violent, With such a Spring sky. The wheatlands are green, snow and frost are away, Birds, why are ye silent on such a sweet day?

By the slated pig-stye The redbreast scarce whispers: Where last Autumn's leaves lie The hedge sparrow just lispers. And why are the chaffinch and bullfinch so still, While the sulphur primroses bedeck the wood hill?

The bright yellow-hammers Are strutting about, All still, and none stammers A single note out. From the hedge starts the blackbird, at brook side to drink: I thought he'd have whistled, but he only said "prink."

The tree-creeper hustles Up fir's rusty bark; All silent he bustles; We needn't say hark. There's no song in the forest, in field, or in wood, Yet the sun gilds the grass as though come in for good.

How bright the odd daisies Peep under the stubbs! How bright pilewort blazes Where ruddled sheep rubs The old willow trunk by the side of the brook, Where soon for blue violets the children will look!

By the cot green and mossy Feed sparrow and hen: On the ridge brown and glossy They cluck now and then. The wren cocks his tail o'er his back by the stye, Where his green bottle nest will be made by and bye.

Here's bunches of chickweed, With small starry flowers, Where red-caps oft pick seed In hungry Spring hours. And blue cap and black cap, in glossy Spring coat, Are a-peeping in buds without singing a note.

Why silent should birds be And sunshine so warm? Larks hide where the herds be By cottage and farm. If wild flowers were blooming and fully set in the Spring May-be all the birdies would cheerfully sing.



MEET ME TO-NIGHT

O meet me to-night by the bright starlight, Now the pleasant Spring's begun. My own dear maid, by the greenwood shade, In the crimson set of the sun, Meet me to-night.

The sun he goes down with a ruby crown To a gold and crimson bed; And the falling dew, from heaven so blue, Hangs pearls on Phoebe's head. Love, leave the town.

Come thou with me; 'neath the green-leaf tree We'll crop the bonny sweet brere. O come, dear maid, 'neath the hazlewood shade, For love invites us there. Come then with me.

The owl pops, scarce seen, from the ivy green, With his spectacles on I ween: See the moon's above and the stars twinkle, love; Better time was never seen. O come, my queen.

The fox he stops, and down he drops His head beneath the grass. The birds are gone; we're all alone; O come, my bonny lass. Come, O come!



YOUNG JENNY

The cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane Where the wild roses hang and the woodbines entwine, And the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again Round the side of the tavern close by the sign. The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen, In curtains the richest that ever were seen.

The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain, And, beating the hedges, low fly the barn owls; The moon with her horns is just peeping again, And deep in the forest the dog-badger howls; In best bib and tucker then wanders my Jane By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane.

On a sweet eventide I walk by her side; In green hoods the daisies have shut up their eyes. Young Jenny is handsome without any pride; Her eyes (O how bright!) have the hue of the skies. O 'tis pleasant to walk by the side of my Jane At the close of the day, down the mossy green lane.

We stand by the brook, by the gate, and the stile, While the even star hangs out his lamp in the sky; And on her calm face dwells a sweet sunny smile, While her soul fondly speaks through the light of her eye. Sweet are the moments while waiting for Jane; 'T is her footsteps I hear coming down the green lane.



ADIEU!

"Adieu, my love, adieu! Be constant and be true As the daisies gemmed with dew, Bonny maid." The cows their thirst were slaking, Trees the playful winds were shaking; Sweet songs the birds were making In the shade.

The moss upon the tree Was as green as green could be, The clover on the lea Ruddy glowed; Leaves were silver with the dew, Where the tall sowthistles grew, And I bade the maid adieu On the road.

Then I took myself to sea, While the little chiming bee Sung his ballad on the lea, Humming sweet; And the red-winged butterfly Was sailing through the sky, Skimming up and bouncing by Near my feet.

I left the little birds, And sweet lowing of the herds, And couldn't find out words, Do you see, To say to them good bye, Where the yellow cups do lie; So heaving a deep sigh, Took to sea.



MY BONNY ALICE AND HER PITCHER

There's a bonny place in Scotland, Where a little spring is found; There Nature shows her honest face The whole year round. Where the whitethorn branches, full of may, Hung near the fountain's rim, Where comes sweet Alice every day And dips her pitcher in; A gallon pitcher without ear, She fills it with the water clear.

My bonny Alice she is fair; There's no such other to be found. Her rosy cheek and dark brown hair— The fairest maid on Scotland's ground. And there the heather's pinhead flowers All blossom over bank and brae, While Alice passes by the bowers To fill her pitcher every day; The pitcher brown without an ear She dips into the fountain clear.

O Alice, bonny, sweet, and fair, With roses on her cheeks! The little birds come drinking there, The throstle almost speaks. He dips his wings and wimples makes Upon the fountain clear, Then vanishes among the brakes For ever singing near; While Alice, listening, stands to hear, And dips her pitcher without ear.

O Alice, bonny Alice, fair, Thy pleasant face I love; Thy red-rose cheek, thy dark brown hair, Thy soft eyes, like a dove. I see thee by the fountain stand, With the sweet smiling face; There's not a maid in all the land With such bewitching grace As Alice, who is drawing near, To dip the pitcher without ear.



THE MAIDEN I LOVE

How sweet are Spring wild flowers! They grow past the counting. How sweet are the wood-paths that thread through the grove! But sweeter than all the wild flowers of the mountain Is the beauty that walks here—the maiden I love. Her black hair in tangles The rose briar mangles; Her lips and soft cheeks, Where love ever speaks: O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love.

It was down in the wild flowers, among brakes and brambles, I met the sweet maiden so dear to my eye, In one of my Sunday morn midsummer rambles, Among the sweet wild blossoms blooming close by. Her hair it was coal black, Hung loose down her back; In her hand she held posies Of blooming primroses, The maiden who passed on the morning of love.

Coal black was her silk hair that shaded white shoulders; Ruby red were her ripe lips, her cheeks of soft hue; Her sweet smiles, enchanting the eyes of beholders, Thrilled my heart as she rambled the wild blossoms through. Like the pearl, her bright eye; In trembling delight I Kissed her cheek, like a rose In its gentlest repose. O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love!



TO JENNY LIND

I cannot touch the harp again, And sing another idle lay, To cool a maddening, burning brain, And drive the midnight fiend away. Music, own sister to the soul. Bids roses bloom on cheeks all pale; And sweet her joys and sorrows roll When sings the Swedish Nightingale.

* * * * *

I cannot touch the harp again; No chords will vibrate on the string; Like broken flowers upon the plain, My heart e'en withers while I sing. Aeolian harps have witching tones, On morning or the evening gale; No melody their music owns As sings the Swedish nightingale.



LITTLE TROTTY WAGTAIL

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain, And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again. He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly, And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.

Little trotty wagtail he waddled in the mud, And left his little footmarks, trample where he would. He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail, And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.

Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about, And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out; Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye, So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good bye.



THE FOREST MAID

O once I loved a pretty girl, and dearly love her still; I courted her in happiness for two short years or more. And when I think of Mary it turns my bosom chill, For my little of life's happiness is faded and is o'er. O fair was Mary Littlechild, and happy as the bee, And sweet was bonny Mary as the song of forest bird; And the smile upon her red lips was very dear to me, And her tale of love the sweetest that my ear has ever heard.

O the flower of all the forest was Mary Littlechild; There's few could be so dear to me and none could be so fair. While many love the garden flowers I still esteem the wild, And Mary of the forest is the fairest blossom there. She's fairer than the may flowers that bloom among the thorn, She's dearer to my eye than the rose upon the brere; Her eye is brighter far than the bonny pearls of morn, And the name of Mary Littlechild is to me ever dear.

O once I loved a pretty girl. The linnet in its mirth Was never half so blest as I with Mary Littlechild— The rose of the creation, and the pink of all the earth, The flower of all the forest, and the best for being wild. O sweet are dews of morning, ere the Autumn blows so chill,— And sweet are forest flowers in the hawthorn's mossy shade, But nothing is so fair, and nothing ever will Bloom like the rosy cheek of my bonny Forest Maid.



BONNY MARY O!

The morning opens fine, bonny Mary O! The robin sings his song by the dairy O! Where the little Jenny wrens cock their tails among the hens, Singing morning's happy songs with Mary O!

The swallow's on the wing, bonny Mary O! Where the rushes fringe the spring, bonny Mary O! Where the cowslips do unfold, shaking tassels all of gold, Which make the milk so sweet, bonny Mary O!

There's the yellowhammer's nest, bonny Mary O! Where she hides her golden breast, bonny Mary O! On her mystic eggs she dwells, with strange writing on their shells, Hid in the mossy grass, bonny Mary O!

There the spotted cow gets food, bonny Mary O! And chews her peaceful cud, bonny Mary O! In the molehills and the bushes, and the clear brook fringed with rushes, To fill the evening pail, bonny Mary O!

Where the gnat swarms fall and rise under evenings' mellow skies, And on flags sleep dragon flies, bonny Mary O! And I will meet thee there, bonny Mary O! When a-milking you repair, bonny Mary O! And I'll kiss thee on the grass, my buxom, bonny lass, And be thine own for aye, bonny Mary O!



LOVE'S EMBLEM

Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace: How happy should I prove, Could I supply that envied place With never-fading love.

Accept, dear maid, now Summer glows, This pure, unsullied gem, Love's emblem in a full-blown rose, Just broken from the stem.

Accept it as a favourite flower For thy soft breast to wear; 'Twill blossom there its transient hour, A favourite of the fair.

Upon thy cheek its blossom glows, As from a mirror clear, Making thyself a living rose, In blossom all the year.

It is a sweet and favourite flower To grace a maiden's brow, Emblem of love without its power— A sweeter rose art thou.

The rose, like hues of insect wing, May perish in an hour; 'T is but at best a fading thing, But thou'rt a living flower.

The roses steeped in morning dews Would every eye enthrall, But woman, she alone subdues; Her beauty conquers all.



THE MORNING WALK

The linnet sat upon its nest, By gales of morning softly prest, His green wing and his greener breast Were damp with dews of morning: The dog-rose near the oaktree grew, Blush'd swelling 'neath a veil of dew, A pink's nest to its prickles grew, Right early in the morning.

The sunshine glittered gold, the while A country maiden clomb the stile; Her straw hat couldn't hide the smile That blushed like early morning. The lark, with feathers all wet through, Looked up above the glassy dew, And to the neighbouring corn-field flew, Fanning the gales of morning.

In every bush was heard a song, On each grass blade, the whole way long, A silver shining drop there hung, The milky dew of morning. Where stepping-stones stride o'er the brook The rosy maid I overtook. How ruddy was her healthy look, So early in the morning!

I took her by the well-turned arm, And led her over field and farm, And kissed her tender cheek so warm, A rose in early morning. The spiders' lacework shone like glass, Tied up to flowers and cat-tail grass; The dew-drops bounced before the lass, Sprinkling the early morning.

Her dark curls fanned among the gales, The skylark whistled o'er the vales, I told her love's delightful tales Among the dews of morning. She crop't a flower, shook oft' the dew, And on her breast the wild rose grew; She blushed as fair, as lovely, too— The living rose of morning.



TO MISS C.....

Thy glance is the brightest, Thy voice is the sweetest, Thy step is the lightest, Thy shape the completest: Thy waist I could span, dear, Thy neck's like a swan's, dear, And roses the sweetest On thy cheeks do appear.

The music of Spring Is the voice of my charmer. When the nightingales sing She's as sweet; who would harm her? Where the snowdrop or lily lies They show her face, but her eyes Are the dark clouds, yet warmer, From which the quick lightning flies O'er the face of my charmer.

Her faith is the snowdrop, So pure on its stem; And love in her bosom She wears as a gem; She is young as Spring flowers, And sweet as May showers, Swelling the clover buds, and bending the stem, She's the sweetest of blossoms, she love's favourite gem.



I PLUCK SUMMER BLOSSOMS

I pluck Summer blossoms, And think of rich bosoms— The bosoms I've leaned on, and worshipped, and won. The rich valley lilies, The wood daffodillies, Have been found in our rambles when Summer begun.

Where I plucked thee the bluebell, 'T was where the night dew fell, And rested till morn in the cups of the flowers; I shook the sweet posies, Bluebells and brere roses, As we sat in cool shade in Summer's warm hours.

Bedlam-cowslips and cuckoos, With freck'd lip and hooked nose, Growing safe near the hazel of thicket and woods, And water blobs, ladies' smocks, Blooming where haycocks May be found, in the meadows, low places, and floods.

And cowslips a fair band For May ball or garland, That bloom in the meadows as seen by the eye; And pink ragged robin, Where the fish they are bobbing Their heads above water to catch at the fly.

Wild flowers and wild roses! 'T is love makes the posies To paint Summer ballads of meadow and glen. Floods can't drown it nor turn it, Even flames cannot burn it; Let it bloom till we walk the green meadows again.



THE MARCH NOSEGAY

The bonny March morning is beaming In mingled crimson and grey, White clouds are streaking and creaming The sky till the noon of the day; The fir deal looks darker and greener, And grass hills below look the same; The air all about is serener, The birds less familiar and tame.

Here's two or three flowers for my fair one, Wood primroses and celandine too; I oft look about for a rare one To put in a posy for you. The birds look so clean and so neat, Though there's scarcely a leaf on the grove; The sun shines about me so sweet, I cannot help thinking of love.

So where the blue violets are peeping, By the warm sunny sides of the woods, And the primrose, 'neath early morn weeping, Amid a large cluster of buds, (The morning it was such a rare one, So dewy, so sunny, and fair,) I sought the wild flowers for my fair one, To wreath in her glossy black hair.



LEFT ALONE

Left in the world alone, Where nothing seems my own, And everything is weariness to me, 'T is a life without an end, 'T is a world without a friend, And everything is sorrowful I see.

There's the crow upon the stack, And other birds all black, While bleak November's frowning wearily; And the black cloud's dropping rain, Till the floods hide half the plain, And everything is dreariness to me.

The sun shines wan and pale, Chill blows the northern gale, And odd leaves shake and quiver on the tree, While I am left alone, Chilled as a mossy stone, And all the world is frowning over me.



TO MARY

Mary, I love to sing About the flowers of Spring, For they resemble thee. In the earliest of the year Thy beauties will appear, And youthful modesty.

Here's the daisy's silver rim, With gold eye never dim, Spring's earliest flower so fair. Here the pilewort's golden rays Set the cow green in a blaze, Like the sunshine in thy hair.

Here's forget-me-not so blue; Is there any flower so true? Can it speak my happy lot? When we courted in disguise This flower I used to prize, For it said "Forget-me-not."

Speedwell! And when we meet In the meadow paths so sweet, Where the flowers I gave to thee All grew beneath the sun, May thy gentle heart be won, And I be blest with thee.



THE NIGHTINGALE

This is the month the nightingale, clod brown, Is heard among the woodland shady boughs: This is the time when in the vale, grass-grown, The maiden hears at eve her lover's vows, What time the blue mist round the patient cows Dim rises from the grass and half conceals Their dappled hides. I hear the nightingale, That from the little blackthorn spinney steals To the old hazel hedge that skirts the vale, And still unseen sings sweet. The ploughman feels The thrilling music as he goes along, And imitates and listens; while the fields Lose all their paths in dusk to lead him wrong, Still sings the nightingale her soft melodious song.



THE DYING CHILD

He could not die when trees were green, For he loved the time too well. His little hands, when flowers were seen, Were held for the bluebell, As he was carried o'er the green.

His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee; He knew those children of the Spring: When he was well and on the lea He held one in his hands to sing, Which filled his heart with glee.

Infants, the children of the Spring! How can an infant die When butterflies are on the wing, Green grass, and such a sky? How can they die at Spring?

He held his hands for daisies white, And then for violets blue, And took them all to bed at night That in the green fields grew, As childhood's sweet delight.

And then he shut his little eyes, And flowers would notice not; Bird's nests and eggs caused no surprise, He now no blossoms got: They met with plaintive sighs.

When Winter came and blasts did sigh, And bare were plain and tree, As he for ease in bed did lie His soul seemed with the free, He died so quietly.



MARY

The skylark mounts up with the morn, The valleys are green with the Spring, The linnets sit in the whitethorn, To build mossy dwellings and sing; I see the thornbush getting green, I see the woods dance in the Spring, But Mary can never be seen, Though the all-cheering Spring doth begin.

I see the grey bark of the oak Look bright through the underwood now; To the plough plodding horses they yoke, But Mary is not with her cow. The birds almost whistle her name: Say, where can my Mary be gone? The Spring brightly shines, and 'tis shame That she should be absent alone.

The cowslips are out on the grass, Increasing like crowds at a fair; The river runs smoothly as glass, And the barges float heavily there; The milkmaid she sings to her cow, But Mary is not to be seen; Can Nature such absence allow At milking on pasture and green?

When Sabbath-day comes to the green, The maidens are there in their best, But Mary is not to be seen, Though I walk till the sun's in the west. I fancy still each wood and plain, Where I and my Mary have strayed, When I was a young country swain, And she was the happiest maid.

But woods they are all lonely now, And the wild flowers blow all unseen; The birds sing alone on the bough, Where Mary and I once have been. But for months she now keeps away. And I am a sad lonely hind; Trees tell me so day after day, As slowly they wave in the wind.

Birds tell me, while swaying the bough, That I am all threadbare and old; The very sun looks on me now As one dead, forgotten, and cold. Once I'd a place where I could rest. And love, for then I was free; That place was my Mary's dear breast And hope was still left unto me.

The Spring comes brighter day by day, And brighter flowers appear, And though she long has kept away Her name is ever dear. Then leave me still the meadow flowers, Where daffies blaze and shine; Give but the Spring's young hawthorn bower, For then sweet Mary's mine.



CLOCK-A-CLAY

In the cowslip pips I lie, Hidden from the buzzing fly, While green grass beneath me lies, Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes, Here I lie, a clock-a-clay. Waiting for the time o' day.

While the forest quakes surprise, And the wild wind sobs and sighs, My home rocks as like to fall, On its pillar green and tall; When the pattering rain drives by Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry.

Day by day and night by night, All the week I hide from sight; In the cowslip pips I lie, In the rain still warm and dry; Day and night, and night and day, Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay.

My home shakes in wind and showers, Pale green pillar topped with flowers, Bending at the wild wind's breath, Till I touch the grass beneath; Here I live, lone clock-a-clay, Watching for the time of day.



SPRING

Come, gentle Spring, and show thy varied greens In woods, and fields, and meadows, by clear brooks; Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy sweetest scenes, Where peace, with solitude, the loveliest looks; Where the blue unclouded sky Spreads the sweetest canopy, And Study wiser grows without her books.

Come hither, gentle May, and with thee bring Flowers of all colours, and the wild briar rose; Come in wind-floating drapery, and bring Fragrance and bloom, that Nature's love bestows— Meadow pinks and columbines, Kecksies white and eglantines, And music of the bee that seeks the rose.

Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy choicest looks, Thy bosom graced with flowers, thy face with smiles; Come, gentle Spring, and trace thy wandering brooks, Through meadow gates, o'er footpath crooked stiles; Come in thy proud and best array, April dews and flowers of May, And singing birds that come where heaven smiles.



EVENING

In the meadow's silk grasses we see the black snail, Creeping out at the close of the eve, sipping dew, While even's one star glitters over the vale, Like a lamp hung outside of that temple of blue. I walk with my true love adown the green vale, The light feathered grasses keep tapping her shoe; In the whitethorn the nightingale sings her sweet tale, And the blades of the grasses are sprinkled with dew.

If she stumbles I catch her and cling to her neck, As the meadow-sweet kisses the blush of the rose: Her whisper none hears, and the kisses I take The mild voice of even will never disclose. Her hair hung in ringlets adown her sweet cheek, That blushed like the rose in the hedge hung with dew; Her whisper was fragrance, her face was so meek— The dove was the type on't that from the bush flew.



THE SWALLOW

Swift goes the sooty swallow o'er the heath, Swifter than skims the cloud-rack of the skies; As swiftly flies its shadow underneath, And on his wing the twittering sunbeam lies, As bright as water glitters in the eyes Of those it passes; 'tis a pretty thing, The ornament of meadows and clear skies: With dingy breast and narrow pointed wing, Its daily twittering is a song to Spring.



JOCKEY AND JENNY

"Will Jockey come to-day, mither? Will Jockey come to-day? He's taen sic likings to my brither He's sure to come the day." "Haud yer tongue, lass, mind your rockie; But th'other day ye wore a pockie. What can ye mean to think o' Jockey? Ye've bin content the season long, Ye'd best keep to your harmless song."

"Ye'll soon see falling tears, mither, If love's a sin in youth; He leuks to me, and talks wi' brither, But I know the secret truth. He's courted me the year, mither; Judge not the matter queer, mither; Ye're a' the while as dear, mither, As ye've been the Summer long. I cannot sing my song.

I'll hear nae farder preaching, mither; I'se bin a child ower lang; He led me frae the teaching, mither, Ann wherefore did he wrang? I ken he often tauks wi' brither; I neither look at ane or 'tither; You ken as well as I, mither, There's nae love in my song, Though I've sang the Summer long."

"Nae, dinna be sae saucy, lassie, I may be kenned ye ill. If love has taen the hold, lassie, There's nae cure i' the pill." "Nae, I dinna want a pill, mither; He leuks at me and tauks to ither; And twice we've bin at kirk thegither. I'm 's well now as a' Summer long, But somehew cauna sing a song.

He comes and talks to brither, mither, But leuks his thoughts at me; He always says gude neet to brither, And looks gude neet to me." "Lassie, ye seldom vexed yer mither; Ye're ower too fair a flower to wither; So be ye are to come thegither, I'll be nae damp to yer new claes; Cheer up and sing o'er 'Loggan braes.'"

Jockey comes o' Sabbath days, His face is not a face o'er brassy; Her mither sits to praise the claes; Holds him her box; to win the lassie He taks a pinch, and greets wi' granny, And helps his chair up nearer Jenny, And vows he loves her muir than any. She thinks her mither seldom wrong, And "Loggan braes" is her daily song.



THE FACE I LOVE SO DEARLY

Sweet is the violet, th' scented pea, Haunted by red-legged, sable bee, But sweeter far than all to me Is she I love so dearly; Than perfumed pea and sable bee, The face I love so dearly.

Sweeter than hedgerow violets blue, Than apple blossoms' streaky hue, Or black-eyed bean-flower blebbed with dew Is she I love so dearly; Than apple flowers or violets blue Is she I love so dearly.

Than woodbine upon branches thin, The clover flower, all sweets within, Which pensive bees do gather in, Three times as sweet, or nearly, Is the cheek, the eye, the lip, the chin Of her I love so dearly.



THE BEANFIELD

A beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet As Araby, or groves of orange flowers; Black-eyed and white, and feathered to one's feet, How sweet they smell in morning's dewy hours! When seething night is left upon the flowers, And when morn's sun shines brightly o'er the field, The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers, And sweet the fragrance which the union yields To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields.



WHERE SHE TOLD HER LOVE

I saw her crop a rose Right early in the day, And I went to kiss the place Where she broke the rose away; And I saw the patten rings Where she o'er the stile had gone, And I love all other things Her bright eyes look upon. If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree, That whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.

I have a pleasant hill Which I sit upon for hours, Where she crop't some sprigs of thyme And other little flowers; And she muttered as she did it As does beauty in a dream, And I loved her when she hid it On her breast, so like to cream, Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone; Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.

There is a small green place Where cowslips early curled, Which on Sabbath day I traced, The dearest in the world. A little oak spreads o'er it, And throws a shadow round, A green sward close before it, The greenest ever found: There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove, Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love.



MILKING O' THE KYE

Young Jenny wakens at the dawn, Fresh as carnations newly blown, And o'er the pasture every morn Goes milking o' the kye. She sings her songs of happy glee, While round her swirls the humble bee; The butterfly, from tree to tree, Goes gaily flirting by.

Young Jenny was a bonny thing As ever wakened in the Spring, And blythe she to herself could sing At milking o' the kye. She loved to hear the old crows croak Upon the ash tree and the oak, And noisy pies that almost spoke At milking o' the kye.

She crop't the wild thyme every night, Scenting so sweet the dewy light, And hid it in her breast so white At milking o' the kye. I met and clasped her in my arms, The finest flower on twenty farms; Her snow-white breast my fancy warms At milking o' the kye.



A LOVER'S VOWS

Scenes of love and days of pleasure, I must leave them all, lassie. Scenes of love and hours of leisure, All are gone for aye, lassie. No more thy velvet-bordered dress My fond and longing een shall bless, Thou lily in the wilderness; And who shall love thee then, lassie? Long I've watched thy look so tender, Often clasped thy waist so slender: Heaven, in thine own love defend her, God protect my own lassie.

By all the faith I've shown afore thee, I'll swear by more than that, lassie: By heaven and earth I'll still adore thee, Though we should part for aye, lassie! By thy infant years so loving, By thy woman's love so moving, That white breast thy goodness proving, I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie! By the sun that shines for ever, By love's light and its own Giver, Who loveth truth and leaveth never, I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie!



THE FALL OF THE YEAR

The Autumn's come again, And the clouds descend in rain, And the leaves are fast falling in the wood; The Summer's voice is still, Save the clacking of the mill And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood.

There's nothing in the mead But the river's muddy speed, And the willow leaves all littered by its side. Sweet voices are all still In the vale and on the hill, And the Summer's blooms are withered in their pride.

Fled is the cuckoo's note To countries far remote, And the nightingale is vanished from the woods; If you search the lordship round There is not a blossom found, And where the hay-cock scented is the flood.

My true love's fled away Since we walked 'mid cocks of hay, On the Sabbath in the Summer of the year; And she's nowhere to be seen On the meadow or the green, But she's coming when the happy Spring is near.

When the birds begin to sing, And the flowers begin to spring, And the cowslips in the meadows reappear, When the woodland oaks are seen In their monarchy of green, Then Mary and love's pleasures will be here.



AUTUMN

I love the fitful gust that shakes The casement all the day, And from the glossy elm tree takes The faded leaves away, Twirling them by the window pane With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig Dance till the shut of eve, The sparrow on the cottage rig, Whose chirp would make believe That Spring was just now flirting by, In Summer's lap with flowers to lie.

I love to see the cottage smoke Curl upwards through the trees, The pigeons nestled round the cote On November days like these; The cock upon the dunghill crowing, The mill sails on the heath a-going.

The feather from the raven's breast Falls on the stubble lea, The acorns near the old crow's nest Drop pattering down the tree; The grunting pigs, that wait for all, Scramble and hurry where they fall.



EARLY LOVE

The Spring of life is o'er with me, And love and all gone by; Like broken bough upon yon tree, I'm left to fade and die. Stern ruin seized my home and me, And desolate's my cot: Ruins of halls, the blasted tree, Are emblems of my lot.

I lived and loved, I woo'd and won, Her love was all to me, But blight fell o'er that youthful one, And like a blasted tree I withered, till I all forgot But Mary's smile on me; She never lived where love was not, And I from bonds was free.

The Spring it clothed the fields with pride, When first we met together; And then unknown to all beside We loved in sunny weather; We met where oaks grew overhead, And whitethorns hung with may; Wild thyme beneath her feet was spread, And cows in quiet lay.

I thought her face was sweeter far Than aught I'd seen before— As simple as the cowslips are Upon the rushy moor: She seemed the muse of that sweet spot, The lady of the plain, And all was dull where she was not, Till we met there again.



EVENING

'T is evening: the black snail has got on his track, And gone to its nest is the wren, And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back, Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.

The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot Where his shadow reached when he first came, And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut Two letters that stand for love's name.

The evening comes in with the wishes of love, And the shepherd he looks on the flowers, And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove, And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love, Where nothing can hear or intrude; It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove, In beautiful green solitude.



A VALENTINE

Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary, Some of Spring's earliest flowers; The ivy is green by the dairy, And so are these laurels of ours. Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary, The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery.

The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose, And aconites under the lilac, like fairies; The best in the bunches for Mary I chose, Their looks are as sweet and as simple as Mary's. The one will make Spring in my verses so bare, The other set off as a braid thy dark hair.

Pale primroses, too, at the old parlour end, Have bloomed all the winter 'midst snows cold and dreary, Where the lavender-cotton kept off the cold wind, Now to shine in my valentine nosegay for Mary; And appear in my verses all Summer, and be A memento of fondness and friendship for thee.

Here's the crocus half opened, that spreads into gold, Like branches of sunbeams left there by a fairy: I place them as such in these verses so cold, But they'll bloom twice as bright in the presence of Mary, These garden flowers crop't, I will go to the field, And see what the valley and pasture land yield.

Here peeps the pale primrose from the skirts of the wild wood, And violet blue 'neath the thorn on the green; The wild flowers we plucked in the days of our childhood, On the very same spot, as no changes have been— In the very same place where the sun kissed the leaves, And the woodbine its branches of thorns interweaves.

And here in the pasture, all swarming with rushes, Is a cowslip as blooming and forward as Spring; And the pilewort like sunshine grows under the bushes, While the chaffinch there sitting is trying to sing; And the daisies are coming, called "stars of the earth," To bring to the schoolboy his Springtime of mirth.

Here, then, is the nosegay: how simple it shines! It speaks without words to the ear and the eye; The flowers of the Spring are the best valentines; They are young, fair, and simple, and pleasingly shy. That you may remain so and your love never vary, I send you these flowers as a valentine, Mary.



TO LIBERTY

O spirit of the wind and sky, Where doth thy harp neglected lie? Is there no heart thy bard to be, To wake that soul of melody? Is liberty herself a slave? No! God forbid it! On, ye brave!

I've loved thee as the common air, And paid thee worship everywhere: In every soil beneath the sun Thy simple song my heart has won. And art thou silent? Still a slave? And thy sons living? On, ye brave!

Gather on mountain and on plain! Make gossamer the iron chain! Make prison walls as paper screen, That tyrant maskers may be seen! Let earth as well as heaven be free! So, on, ye brave, for liberty!

I've loved thy being from a boy: The Highland hills were once my joy: Then morning mists did round them lie, Like sunshine in the happiest sky. The hills and valley seemed my own, When Scottish land was freedom's throne

And Scottish land is freedom's still: Her beacon fires, on every hill, Have told, in characters of flame, Her ancient birthright to her fame. A thousand hills will speak again, In fire, that language ever plain

To sychophants and fawning knaves, That Scotland ne'er was made for slaves! Each fruitful vale, each mountain throne, Is ruled by Nature's laws alone; And nought but falsehood's poisoned breath Will urge the claymore from its sheath.

O spirit of the wind and sky, Where doth thy harp neglected lie? Is there no harp thy bard to be, To wake that soul of melody? Is liberty herself a slave? No! God forbid it! On, ye brave!



APPROACH OF WINTER

The Autumn day now fades away, The fields are wet and dreary; The rude storm takes the flowers of May, And Nature seemeth weary; The partridge coveys, shunning fate, Hide in the bleaching stubble, And many a bird, without its mate, Mourns o'er its lonely trouble.

On hawthorns shine the crimson haw, Where Spring brought may-day blossoms: Decay is Nature's cheerless law— Life's Winter in our bosoms. The fields are brown and naked all, The hedges still are green, But storms shall come at Autumn's fall, And not a leaf be seen.

Yet happy love, that warms the heart Through darkest storms severe, Keeps many a tender flower to start When Spring shall re-appear. Affection's hope shall roses meet, Like those of Summer bloom, And joys and flowers shall be as sweet In seasons yet to come.



MARY DOVE

Sweet Summer, breathe your softest gales To charm my lover's ear: Ye zephyrs, tell your choicest tales Where'er she shall appear; And gently wave the meadow grass Where soft she sets her feet, For my love is a country lass, And bonny as she's sweet.

The hedges only seem to mourn, The willow boughs to sigh, Though sunshine o'er the meads sojourn, To cheer me where I lie: The blackbird in the hedgerow thorn Sings loud his Summer lay; He seems to sing, both eve and morn, "She wanders here to-day."

The skylark in the summer cloud One cheering anthem sings, And Mary often wanders out To watch his trembling wings.

* * * * *

I'll wander down the river way, And wild flower posies make, For Nature whispers all the day She can't her promise break. The meads already wear a smile, The river runs more bright, For down the path and o'er the stile The maiden comes in sight.

The scene begins to look divine; We'll by the river walk. Her arm already seems in mine, And fancy hears her talk. A vision, this, of early love: The meadow, river, rill, Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove, Are in my memory still.



SPRING'S NOSEGAY

The prim daisy's golden eye On the fallow land doth lie, Though the Spring is just begun: Pewits watch it all the day, And the skylark's nest of hay Is there by its dried leaves in the sun.

There the pilewort, all in gold, 'Neath the ridge of finest mould, Blooms to cheer the ploughman's eye: There the mouse his hole hath made, And 'neath the golden shade Hides secure when the hawk is prowling by.

Here's the speedwell's sapphire blue: Was there anything more true To the vernal season still? Here it decks the bank alone, Where the milkmaid throws a stone At noon, to cross the rapid, flooded rill.

Here the cowslip, chill with cold, On the rushy bed behold, It looks for sunshine all the day. Here the honey bee will come, For he has no sweets at home; Then quake his weary wing and fly away.

And here are nameless flowers, Culled in cold and rawky hours For my Mary's happy home. They grew in murky blea, Rush fields and naked lea, But suns will shine and pleasing Spring will come.



THE LOST ONE

I seek her in the shady grove, And by the silent stream; I seek her where my fancies rove, In many a happy dream; I seek her where I find her not, In Spring and Summer weather: My thoughts paint many a happy spot, But we ne'er meet together.

The trees and bushes speak my choice, And in the Summer shower I often hear her pleasant voice, In many a silent hour: I see her in the Summer brook, In blossoms sweet and fair; In every pleasant place I look My fancy paints her there.

The wind blows through the forest trees, And cheers the pleasant day; There her sweet voice is sure to be To lull my cares away. The very hedges find a voice, So does the gurgling rill; But still the object of my choice Is lost and absent still.



THE TELL-TALE FLOWERS

And has the Spring's all glorious eye No lesson to the mind? The birds that cleave the golden sky— Things to the earth resigned— Wild flowers that dance to every wind— Do they no memory leave behind?

Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers, That bloom in wood and glen, Brings Spring to me in Winter's hours, And childhood's dreams again. The primrose on the woodland lea Was more than gold and lands to me.

The violets by the woodland side Are thick as they could thrive; I've talked to them with childish pride As things that were alive: I find them now in my distress— They seem as sweet, yet valueless.

The cowslips on the meadow lea, How have I run for them! I looked with wild and childish glee Upon each golden gem: And when they bowed their heads so shy I laughed, and thought they danced for joy.

And when a man, in early years, How sweet they used to come, And give me tales of smiles and tears, And thoughts more dear than home: Secrets which words would then reprove— They told the names of early love.

The primrose turned a babbling flower Within its sweet recess: I blushed to see its secret bower, And turned her name to bless. The violets said the eyes were blue: I loved, and did they tell me true?

The cowslips, blooming everywhere, My heart's own thoughts could steal: I nip't them that they should not hear: They smiled, and would reveal; And o'er each meadow, right or wrong, They sing the name I've worshipped long.

The brook that mirrored clear the sky— Full well I know the spot; The mouse-ear looked with bright blue eye, And said "Forget-me-not." And from the brook I turned away, But heard it many an after day.

The king-cup on its slender stalk, Within the pasture dell, Would picture there a pleasant walk With one I loved so well. It said "How sweet at eventide 'T would be, with true love at thy side."

And on the pasture's woody knoll I saw the wild bluebell, On Sundays where I used to stroll With her I loved so well: She culled the flowers the year before; These bowed, and told the story o'er.

And every flower that had a name Would tell me who was fair; But those without, as strangers, came And blossomed silent there: I stood to hear, but all alone: They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown.

But seasons now have nought to say, The flowers no news to bring: Alone I live from day to day— Flowers deck the bier of Spring; And birds upon the bush or tree All sing a different tale to me.



THE SKYLARK

Although I'm in prison Thy song is uprisen, Thou'rt singing away to the feathery cloud, In the blueness of morn, Over fields of green corn, With a song sweet and trilling, and rural and loud.

When the day is serenest, When the corn is the greenest, Thy bosom mounts up and floats in the light, And sings in the sun, Like a vision begun Of pleasure, of love, and of lonely delight.

The daisies they whiten Plains the sunbeams now brighten, And warm thy snug nest where thy russet eggs lie, From whence thou'rt now springing, And the air is now ringing, To show that the minstrel of Spring is on high.

The cornflower is blooming, The cowslip is coming, And many new buds on the silken grass lie: On the earth's shelt'ring breast Thou hast left thy brown nest, And art towering above it, a speck in the sky.

Thou'rt the herald of sunshine, And the soft dewy moonshine Gilds sweetly the sleep of thy brown speckled breast: Thou'rt the bard of the Spring, On thy brown russet wing, And of each grassy close thou'rt the poet and guest.

There's the violet confiding, In the mossy wood riding, And primrose beneath the old thorn in the glen, And the daisies that bed In the sheltered homestead— Old friends with old faces, I see them again.

And thou, feathered poet, I see thee, and know it— Thou'rt one of the minstrels that cheered me last Spring: With Nature thou'rt blest, And green grass round thy nest Will keep thee still happy to mount up and sing.



POETS LOVE NATURE—A FRAGMENT

Poets love Nature, and themselves are love. Though scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride. The vile in nature worthless deeds approve, They court the vile and spurn all good beside. Poets love Nature; like the calm of Heaven, Like Heaven's own love, her gifts spread far and wide: In all her works there are no signs of leaven * * * *

Her flowers * * * * They are her very Scriptures upon earth, And teach us simple mirth where'er we go. Even in prison they can solace me, For where they bloom God is, and I am free.



HOME YEARNINGS

O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!— The babe upon its mother's breast, The bird upon its young, The heart asleep without a pain— When shall I know that sleep again?

When shall I be as I have been Upon my mother's breast— Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green To woo to perfect rest— Love in the meadow, field, and glen, And in my native wilds again?

The sheep within the fallow field, The herd upon the green, The larks that in the thistle shield, And pipe from morn to e'en— O for the pasture, fields, and fen! When shall I see such rest again?

I love the weeds along the fen, More sweet than garden flowers, For freedom haunts the humble glen That blest my happiest hours. Here prison injures health and me: I love sweet freedom and the free.

The crows upon the swelling hills, The cows upon the lea, Sheep feeding by the pasture rills, Are ever dear to me, Because sweet freedom is their mate, While I am lone and desolate.

I loved the winds when I was young, When life was dear to me; I loved the song which Nature sung, Endearing liberty; I loved the wood, the vale, the stream, For there my boyhood used to dream.

There even toil itself was play; 'T was pleasure e'en to weep; 'T was joy to think of dreams by day, The beautiful of sleep. When shall I see the wood and plain, And dream those happy dreams again?



MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS

The Spring is come forth, but no Spring is for me Like the Spring of my boyhood on woodland and lea, When flowers brought me heaven and knew me again, In the joy of their blooming o'er mountain and plain. My thoughts are confined and imprisoned: O when Will freedom find me my own valleys again?

The wind breathes so sweet, and the day is so calm; In the woods and the thicket the flowers look so warm; And the grass is so green, so delicious and sweet; O when shall my manhood my youth's valleys meet— The scenes where my children are laughing at play— The scenes that from memory are fading away?

The primrose looks happy in every field; In strange woods the violets their odours will yield, And flowers in the sunshine, all brightly arrayed, Will bloom just as fresh and as sweet in the shade, But the wild flowers that bring me most joy and content Are the blossoms that glow where my childhood was spent.

The trees are all naked, the bushes are bare, And the fields are as brown as if Winter was there; But the violets are there by the dykes and the dell, Where I played "hen and chickens" and heard the church bell, Which called me to prayer-book and sermons in vain: O when shall I see my own valleys again?

The churches look bright as the sun at noon-day; There the meadows look green ere the winter's away; There the pooty still lies for the schoolboy to find, And a thought often brings these sweet places to mind; Where trees waved and wind moaned; no music so well: There nought sounded harsh but the school-calling bell.

There are spots where I played, there are spots where I loved, There are scenes where the tales of my choice where approved, As green as at first, and their memory will be The dearest of life's recollections to me. The objects seen there, in the care of my heart, Are as fair as at first, and will never depart.

Though no names are mentioned to sanction my themes, Their hearts beat with mine, and make real my dreams; Their memories with mine their diurnal course run, True as night to the stars and as day to the sun; And as they are now so their memories will be, While sense, truth, and reason remain here with me.



LOVE LIVES BEYOND THE TOMB

Love lives beyond the tomb, And earth, which fades like dew! I love the fond, The faithful, and the true.

Love lives in sleep: 'T is happiness of healthy dreams: Eve's dews may weep, But love delightful seems.

'T is seen in flowers, And in the morning's pearly dew; In earth's green hours, And in the heaven's eternal blue.

'T is heard in Spring, When light and sunbeams, warm and kind, On angel's wing Bring love and music to the mind.

And where's the voice, So young, so beautiful, and sweet As Nature's choice, Where Spring and lovers meet?

Love lives beyond the tomb, And earth, which fades like dew! I love the fond, The faithful, and the true.



MY EARLY HOME

Here sparrows build upon the trees, And stockdove hides her nest; The leaves are winnowed by the breeze Into a calmer rest; The black-cap's song was very sweet, That used the rose to kiss; It made the Paradise complete: My early home was this.

The red-breast from the sweetbriar bush Drop't down to pick the worm; On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush, O'er the house where I was born; The moonlight, like a shower of pearls, Fell o'er this "bower of bliss," And on the bench sat boys and girls: My early home was this.

The old house stooped just like a cave, Thatched o'er with mosses green; Winter around the walls would rave, But all was calm within; The trees are here all green agen, Here bees the flowers still kiss, But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then: My early home was this.



MARY APPLEBY

I look upon the hedgerow flower, I gaze upon the hedgerow tree, I walk alone the silent hour, And think of Mary Appleby. I see her in the brimming streams, I see her in the gloaming hour, I hear her in my Summer dreams Of singing bird and blooming flower.

For Mary is the dearest bird, And Mary is the sweetest flower, That in Spring bush was ever heard— That ever bloomed on bank or bower. O bonny Mary Appleby! The sun did never sweeter shine Than when in youth I courted thee, And, dreaming, fancied you'd be mine.

The lark above the meadow sings, Wood pigeons coo in ivied trees, The butterflies, on painted wings, Dance daily with the meadow bees. All Nature is in happy mood, The sueing breeze is blowing free. And o'er the fields, and by the wood, I think of Mary Appleby.

O bonny Mary Appleby; My once dear Mary Appleby! A crown of gold thy own should be, My handsome Mary Appleby! Thy face is like the Summer rose, Its maiden bloom is all divine, And more than all the world bestows I'd give had Mary e'er been mine.



AMONG THE GREEN BUSHES

Among the green bushes the songs of the thrushes Are answering each other in music and glee, While the magpies and rooks, in woods, hedges, near brooks, Mount their Spring dwellings on every high tree. There meet me at eve, love, we'll on grassy banks lean love, And crop a white branch from the scented may tree, Where the silver brook wimples and the rosy cheek dimples, Sweet will the time of that courting hour be.

We'll notice wild flowers, love, that grow by thorn bowers, love, Though sinful to crop them now beaded with dew; The violet is thine, love, the primrose is mine, love, To Spring and each other so blooming and true. With dewdrops all beaded, the feather grass seeded, The cloud mountains turn to dark woods in the sky; The daisy bud closes, while sleep the hedge roses; There's nothing seems wakeful but you love and I.

Larks sleep in the rushes, linnets perch on the bushes, While mag's on her nest with her tail peeping out; The moon it reveals her, yet she thinks night conceals her, Though birdnesting boys are not roving about. The night winds won't wrong her, nor aught that belong her, For night is the nurse of all Nature in sleep; The moon, love, is keeping a watch o'er the sleeping, And dews for real pleasure do nothing but weep.