  "Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch." S. T. Coleridge. THE SOWER. The winds had hushed at last as by command; The quiet sky above, With its grey clouds spread o'er the fallow land, Sat brooding like a dove There was no motion in the air, no sound Within the tree-tops stirred, Save when some last leaf, fluttering to the ground, Dropped like a wounded bird: Or when the swart rooks in a gathering crowd With clamorous noises wheeled, Hovering awhile, then swooped with wranglings loud Down on the stubbly field. For now the big-thewed horses, toiling slow In straining couples yoked, Patiently dragged the ploughshare to and fro Till their wet haunches smoked. Till the stiff acre, broken into clods, Bruised by the harrow's tooth, Lay lightly shaken, with its humid sods Ranged into furrows smooth. There looming lone, from rise to set of sun, Without or pause or speed, Solemnly striding by the furrows dun, The sower sows the seed. The sower sows the seed, which mouldering, Deep coffined in the earth, Is buried now, but with the future spring Will quicken into birth. Oh, poles of birth and death! Controlling Powers Of human toil and need! On this fair earth all men are surely sowers, Surely all life is seed! All life is seed, dropped in Time's yawning furrow, Which with slow sprout and shoot, In the revolving world's unfathomed morrow, Will blossom and bear fruit. A SPRING SONG. Dark sod pierced by flames of flowers, Dead wood freshly quickening, Bright skies dusked with sudden showers, Lit by rainbows on the wing. Cuckoo calls and young lambs' bleating Nimble airs which coyly bring Little gusts of tender greeting From shy nooks where violets cling. Half-fledged buds and birds and vernal Fields of grass dew-glistening; Evanescent life's eternal Resurrection, bridal Spring! APRIL RAIN. The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are fledged with nestling flowers; And in grey shaw and woodland bowers The cuckoo through the April rain Calls once again. The April sun, the April sun, Glints through the rain in fitful splendour, And in grey shaw and woodland dun The little leaves spring forth and tender Their infant hands, yet weak and slender, For warmth towards the April sun, One after one. And between shower and shine hath birth The rainbow's evanescent glory; Heaven's light that breaks on mists of earth! Frail symbol of our human story, It flowers through showers where, looming hoary, The rain-clouds flash with April mirth, Like Life on earth. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. There was intoxication in the air; The wind, keen blowing from across the seas, O'er leagues of new-ploughed land and heathery leas, Smelt of wild gorse whose gold flamed everywhere. An undertone of song pulsed far and near, The soaring larks filled heaven with ecstasies, And, like a living clock among the trees, The shouting cuckoo struck the time of year. For now the Sun had found the earth once more, And woke the Sleeping Beauty with a kiss; Who thrilled with light of love in every pore, Opened her flower-blue eyes, and looked in his. Then all things felt life fluttering at their core— The world shook mystical in lambent bliss. APPLE-BLOSSOM. Blossom of the apple trees! Mossy trunks all gnarled and hoary, Grey boughs tipped with rose-veined glory, Clustered petals soft as fleece Garlanding old apple trees! How you gleam at break of day! When the coy sun, glancing rarely, Pouts and sparkles in the pearly Pendulous dewdrops, twinkling gay On each dancing leaf and spray. Through your latticed boughs on high, Framed in rosy wreaths, one catches Brief kaleidoscopic snatches In the April-coloured sky. When the sundown's dying brand Leaves your beauty to the tender Magic spells of moonlight splendour, Glimmering clouds of bloom you stand, Turning earth to fairyland. Cease, wild winds, O, cease to blow! Apple-blossom, fluttering, flying, Palely on the green turf lying, Vanishing like winter snow; Swift as joy to come and go. THE TEAMSTER. With slow and slouching gait Sam leads the team; He stoops i' the shoulders, worn with work not years; One only passion has he, it would seem— The passion for the horses which he rears: He names them as one would some household pet, May, Violet. He thinks them quite as sensible as men; As nice as women, but not near so skittish; He fondles, cossets, scolds them now and then, Nay, gravely talks as if they knew good British: You hear him call from dawn to set of sun, "Goo back! Com on!" Sam never seems depressed nor yet elate, Like Nature's self he goes his punctual round; On Sundays, smoking by his garden gate, For hours he'll stand, with eyes upon the ground, Like some tired cart-horse in a field alone, And still as stone. Yet, howsoever stolid he may seem, Sam has his tragic background, weird and wild Like some adventure in a drunkard's dream. Impossible, you'd swear, for one so mild: Yet village gossips dawdling o'er their ale Still tell the tale. In his young days Sam loved a servant-maid, A girl with happy eyes like hazel brooks That dance i' the sun, cheeks as if newly made Of pouting roses coyly hid in nooks, And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl: A fresh-blown girl. Sam came a-courting while the year was blithe, When wet browed mowers, stepping out in tune, With level stroke and rhythmic swing of scythe, Smote down the proud grass in the pomp of June, And wagons, half-tipped over, seemed to sway With loads of hay. The elder bush beside the orchard croft Brimmed over with its bloom like curds and cream; From out grey nests high in the granary loft Black clusters of small heads with callow scream Peered open-beaked, as swallows flashed along To feed their young. Ripening towards the harvest swelled the wheat, Lush cherries dangled 'gainst the latticed panes; The roads were baking in the windless heat, And dust had floured the glossy country lanes, One sun-hushed, light-flushed Sunday afternoon The last of June. When, with his thumping heart all out of joint, And pulses beating like a stroller's drum, Sam screwed his courage to the sticking point And asked his blushing sweetheart if she'd come To Titsey Fair; he meant to coax coy May To name the day. But her rich master snapped his thumb and swore The girl was not for him! Should not go out! And, whistling to his dogs, slammed-to the door Close in Sam's face, and left him dazed without In the fierce sunshine, blazing in his path Like fire of wrath. Unheeding, he went forth with hot wild eyes Past fields of feathery oats and wine-red clover; Unheeded, larks soared singing to the skies, Or rang the plaintive cry of rising plover; Unheeded, pheasants with a startled sound Whirred from the ground. On, on he went by acres full of grain, By trees and meadows reeling past his sight, As to a man whirled onwards in a train The land with spinning hedgerows seems in flight; At last he stopped and leant a long, long while Against a stile. Hours passed; the clock struck ten; a hush of night, In which even wind and water seemed at peace; But here and there a glimmering cottage light Shone like a glowworm through the slumberous trees; Or from some far-off homestead through the dark A watch-dog's bark. But all at once Sam gave a stifled cry: "There's fire," he muttered, "fire upon the hills!" Her light looked smoke-red as through belching mills: No fire—but moonlight turning in his path To fire of wrath. He looked abroad with eyes that gave the mist A lurid tinge above the breadths of grain Owned by May's master. Then he shook his fist, Still muttering, "Fire!" and measured o'er again The road he'd come, where, lapped in moonlight, lay Huge ricks of hay. There he paused glaring. Then he turned and waned Like mist into the misty, moon-soaked night, Where the pale silvery fields were blotched and stained With strange fantastic shadows. But what light Is that which leaps up, flickering lithe and long, With licking tongue! Hungry it darts and hisses, twists and turns, And with each minute shoots up high and higher, Till, wrapped in flames, the mighty hayrick burns And sends its sparks on to a neighbouring byre, Where, frightened at the hot, tremendous glow, The cattle low. And rick on rick takes fire; and next a stye, Whence through the smoke the little pigs rush out; The house-dog barks; then, with a startled cry, The window is flung open, shout on shout Wakes the hard-sleeping farm where man and maid Start up dismayed. And with wild faces wavering in the glare, In nightcaps, bedgowns, clothes half huddled on Some to the pump, some to the duck-pond tear In frantic haste, while others splashing run With pails, or turn the hose with flame-scorched face Upon the blaze. At last, when some wan streaks began to show In the chill darkness of the sky, the fire Went out, subdued but for the sputtering glow Of sparks among wet ashes. Barn and byre Were safe, but swallowed all the summer math By fire of wrath. Still haggard from the night's wild work and pale, Farm-men and women stood in whispering knots, Regaled with foaming mugs of nut-brown ale; Firing his oaths about like vicious shots, The farmer hissed out now and then: "Gad damn! It's that black Sam." They had him up and taxed him with the crime; Denying naught, he sulked and held his peace; And so, a branded convict, in due time, Handcuffed and cropped, they shipped him over-seas: Seven years of shame sliced from his labourer's life As with a knife. But through it all the image of a girl With hazel eyes like pebbled waters clear, And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl, Kept his heart sweet through many a galling year, Like to a bit of lavender long pressed In some black chest. At last his time was up, and Sam returned To his dear village with its single street, Where, in the sooty forge, the fire still burned, As, hammering on the anvil, red with heat, The smith wrought at a shoe with tongues aglow, Blow upon blow. There stood the church, with peals for death and birth, Its ancient spire o'ertopping ancient trees, And there the graves and mounds of unknown earth, Gathered like little children round its knees; And sanded floor. Unrecognized Sam took his glass of beer, And picked up gossip which the men let fall: How Farmer Clow had failed, and one named Steer Had taken on the land, repairs and all; And how the Kimber girl was to be wed To Betsy's Ned. Sam heard no more, flung down his pence, and took The way down to the well-remembered stile; There, in the gloaming by the trysting brook, He came upon his May—with just that smile For sheep-faced Ned, that light in happy eyes: Oh, sugared lies! He came upon them with black-knitted brows And clenched brown hands, and muttered huskily: You swore to keep while I was over-sea?" Then crying, turned upon the other one, "Com on, com on." Then they fell to with faces set for fight, And hit each other hard with rustic pride; But Sam, whose arm with iron force could smite, Knocked his cowed rival down, and won his bride. May wept and smiled, swayed like a wild red rose As the wind blows. She married Sam, who loved her with a wild Strong love he could not put to words—too deep For her to gauge; but with her first-born child May dropped off, flower-like, into the long sleep, And left him nothing but the memory of His little love. Since then the silent teamster lives alone, The trusted headman of his master Steer; One only passion seems he still to own— The passion for the foals he has to rear; And still the prettiest, full of life and play, Is little May. A HIGHLAND VILLAGE. Clear shining after the rain, The sun bursts the clouds asunder, And the hollow-rumbling thunder Groans like a loaded wain As, deep in the Grampians yonder, He grumbles now and again. Whenever the breezes shiver The leaves where the rain-drops quiver, Each bough and bush and brier Breaks into living fire, Till every tree is bright With blossom bursts of light. From golden roof and spout Brown waters gurgle and splutter, And rush down the flooded gutter Where the village children shout, As barefoot they splash in and out The water with tireless patter. The bald little Highland street Is all alive and a-glitter; The air blows keen and sweet From the field where the swallows twitter; Old wives on the doorsteps meet, At the corner the young maids titter. And the reapers hasten again, Ere quite the daylight wane To shake out the barley sheaves; While through the twinkling leaves The harvest moon upheaves Clear shining after the rain. ON A FORSAKEN LARK'S NEST. Lo, where left 'mid the sheaves, cut down by the iron-fanged reaper, Eating its way as it clangs fast through the wavering wheat, Lies the nest of a lark, whose little brown eggs could not keep her As she, affrighted and scared, fled from the harvester's feet. Ah, what a heartful of song that now will never awaken, Closely packed in the shell, awaited love's fostering, That should have quickened to life what, now a-cold and forsaken, Never, enamoured of light, will meet the dawn on the wing. Ah, what pÆans of joy, what raptures no mortal can measure, Sweet as honey that's sealed in the cells of the honey-comb, Would have ascended on high in jets of mellifluous pleasure, Would have dropped from the clouds to nest in its gold-curtained home. Poor, pathetic brown eggs! Oh, pulses that never will quicken! Music mute in the shell that hath been turned to a tomb! Many a sweet human singer, chilled and adversity-stricken, Withers benumbed in a world his joy might have helped to illume. REAPERS. Sun-tanned men and women, toiling there together; Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat, Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat. Busy life is still, sunk in brooding leisure: Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree-tops; Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure; Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops; In the glassy shallows, that no breath is creasing, Chestnut-coloured cows in the rushes dank Flies with switch of tail from each quivering flank. Nature takes a rest—even her bees are sleeping, And the silent wood seems a church that's shut; But these human creatures cease not from their reaping While the corn stands high, waiting to be cut. APPLE-GATHERING. Essex flats are pink with clover, Kent is crowned with flaunting hops, Whitely shine the cliffs of Dover, Yellow wave the Midland crops; Sussex Downs the flocks grow sleek on, But, for me, I love to stand Where the Herefordshire beacon Watches o'er his orchard land. Where now sun, now shadow dapples— As it wavers in the breeze— Clumps of fresh-complexioned apples On the heavy-laden trees: Red and yellow, streaked and hoary, Russet-coated, pale or brown— Some are dipped in sunset glory, And some painted by the dawn. What profusion, what abundance! Not a twig but has its fruits; High in air some in the sun dance, Some lie scattered near the roots. These the hasty winds have taken Are a green, untimely crop; Those by burly rustics shaken Fall with loud resounding plop. In this mellow autumn weather, Ruddy 'mid the long green grass, Heaped-up baskets stand together, Filled by many a blowsy lass. Red and yellow, streaked and hoary, Pile them on the granary floors, Till the yule-log's flame in glory Loudly up the chimney roars; Till gay troops of children, lightly Tripping in with shouts of glee, See ripe apples dangling brightly On the red-lit Christmas-tree. THE SONGS OF SUMMER. The songs of summer are over and past! The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves; Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves The nests are rudely swung in the blast: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane. The songs of summer are over and past! Woe's me for a music sweeter than theirs— The quick, light bound of a step on the stairs, The greeting of lovers too sweet to last: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane. AUTUMN TINTS. Coral-coloured yew-berries Strew the garden ways, Hollyhocks and sunflowers Make a dazzling blaze In these latter days. Marigolds by cottage doors Flaunt their golden pride, Crimson-punctured bramble leaves Dapple far and wide The green mountain-side. Far away, on hilly slopes Where fleet rivulets run, Miles on miles of tangled fern, Burnished by the sun, Glow a copper dun. For the year that's on the wane, Gathering all its fire, Flares up through the kindling world As, ere they expire, Flames leap high and higher. GREEN LEAVES AND SERE. Three tall poplars beside the pool Shiver and moan in the gusty blast, The carded clouds are blown like wool, And the yellowing leaves fly thick and fast. The leaves, now driven before the blast, Now flung by fits on the curdling pool, Are tossed heaven-high and dropped at last As if at the whim of a jabbering fool. O leaves, once rustling green and cool! Two met here where one moans aghast With wild heart heaving towards the past: Three tall poplars beside the pool. THE HUNTER'S MOON. The Hunter's Moon rides high, High o'er the close-cropped plain; Across the desert sky The herded clouds amain Scamper tumultuously, Chased by the hounding wind That yelps behind. The clamorous hunt is done, Warm-housed the kennelled pack; One huntsman rides alone With dangling bridle slack; He wakes a hollow tone, Far echoing to his horn In clefts forlorn. The Hunter's Moon rides low, Her course is nearly sped. Where is the panting roe? Where hath the wild deer fled? Hunter and hunted now Lie in oblivion deep: Dead or asleep. THE PASSING YEAR. No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves, The meadows are as stirless as the sky, Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves. The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves, Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh, As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye, On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves. There is a pathos in his softening glow, Which like a benediction seems to hover O'er the tranced earth, ere he must sink below And leave her widowed of her radiant Lover, A frost-bound sleeper in a shroud of snow While winter winds howl a wild dirge above her. THE ROBIN REDBREAST. The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still. Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower, Have in adversity's inclement hour Abandoned us to bleak November's chill. But hearken! Yonder russet bird among The crimson clusters of the homely thorn A blending of sweet hope and resignation: Even so, when life of love and youth is shorn, One friend becomes its last, best consolation. THE RED SUNSETS, 1883. The boding sky was charactered with cloud, The scripture of the storm—but high in air, Where the unfathomed zenith still was bare, A pure expanse of rose-flushed violet glowed And, kindling into crimson light, o'erflowed The hurrying wrack with such a blood-red glare, That heaven, igniting, wildly seemed to flare On the dazed eyes of many an awe-struck crowd. And in far lands folk presaged with blanched lips Disastrous wars, earthquakes, and foundering ships Such whelming floods as never dykes could stem, Or some proud empire's ruin and eclipse: Lo, such a sky, they cried, as burned o'er them Once lit the sacking of Jerusalem! THE RED SUNSETS, 1883. The twilight heavens are flushed with gathering light, And o'er wet roofs and huddling streets below Hang with a strange Apocalyptic glow On the black fringes of the wintry night. Such bursts of glory may have rapt the sight Of him to whom on Patmos long ago The visionary angel came to show That heavenly city built of chrysolite. And lo, three factory hands begrimed with soot, Aflame with the red splendour, marvelling stand, And gaze with lifted faces awed and mute. Starved of earth's beauty by Man's grudging hand, O toilers, robbed of labour's golden fruit, Ye, too, may feast in Nature's fairyland. ON THE LIGHTHOUSE AT ANTIBES. A stormy light of sunset glows and glares Between two banks of cloud, and o'er the brine Thy fair lamp on the sky's carnation line Alone on the lone promontory flares: Friend of the Fisher who at nightfall fares Where lurk false reefs masked by the hyaline Of dimpling waves, within whose smile divine Death lies in wait behind Circean snares. The evening knows thee ere the evening star; Or sees thy flame sole Regent of the bight, When storm, hoarse rumoured by the hills afar, Makes mariners steer landward by thy light, Which shows through shock of hostile nature's war How man keeps watch o'er man through deadliest night. CAGNES. ON THE RIVIERA. In tortuous windings up the steep incline The sombre street toils to the village square, Whose antique walls in stone and moulding bear Dumb witness to the Moor. Afar off shine, With tier on tier, cutting heaven's blue divine, The snowy Alps; and lower the hills are fair, With wave-green olives rippling down to where Gold clusters hang and leaves of sunburnt vine. You may perchance, I never shall forget When, between twofold glory of land and sea, We leant together o'er the old parapet, And saw the sun go down. For, oh, to me, The beauty of that beautiful strange place Was its reflection beaming from your face. A WINTER LANDSCAPE. All night, all day, in dizzy, downward flight, Fell the wild-whirling, vague, chaotic snow, Till every landmark of the earth below, Trees, moorlands, roads, and each familiar sight Were blotted out by the bewildering white. And winds, now shrieking loud, now whimpering low, Seemed lamentations for the world-old woe That death must swallow life, and darkness light. But all at once the rack was blown away, The snowstorm hushing ended in a sigh; Then like a flame the crescent moon on high Leaped forth among the planets; pure as they, Earth vied in whiteness with the Milky Way: Herself a star beneath the starry sky. |
|
