George Crabbe: 1754-1832.
A Cottage.-From The Parish Register.'
Behold the cot! where thrives the industrious swain, Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain; Screened from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray Smiles on the window, and prolongs the day; Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop, And turn their blossoms to the casement's top :- All need requires is in that cot contained, And much that taste, untaught and unrestrained, Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace, In one gay picture, all the royal race;
Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings;
The print that shews them, and the verse that sings.
On shelf of deal beside the cuckoo-clock, Of cottage-reading rests the chosen stock; Learning we lack, not books, but have a kind For all our wants, a meat for every mind: The tale for wonder, and the joke for whim, The half-sung sermon, and the half-groaned hymn.
No need of classing; each within its place, The feeling finger in the dark can trace; 'First from the corner, farthest from the wall;' Such all the rules, and they suffice for all.
There pious works for Sunday's use are found, Companions for that Bible newly bound; That Bible, bought by sixpence weekly saved, Has choicest prints by famous hands engraved ; Has choicest notes by many a famous head, Such as to doubt have rustic readers led; Have made them stop to reason why? and how? And where they once agreed, to cavil now.
Oh! rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun; Who simple truth with nine-fold reasons back, And guard the point no enemies attack.
Bunyan's famed Pilgrim rests that shelf upon: A genius rare but rude was honest John; Not one who, early by the muse beguiled, Drank from her well, the waters undefiled; Not one who slowly gained the hill sublime, Then often sipped, and little at a time; But one who dabbled in the sacred springs, And drank them muddy, mixed with baser things.
Samuel Rogers: 1763-1855.
The lark has sung his carol in the sky, The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby; Still in the vale the village bells ring round, Still in Llewellyn Hall the jests resound; For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.
A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine; And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled: "Twas on her knees he sat so oft and smiled.'
And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene, While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.
And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weeping heard where only joy has been; When, by his children borne, and from his door, Slowly departing to return no more,
He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
And such is human life; so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone! Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change, As any that the wandering tribes require, Stretched in the desert round their evening fire; As any sung of old, in hall or bower,
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!
No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove
Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head
Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine
Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have marked By a brook-side or solitary tarn,
How she her station doth adorn.
The pool Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks Are brightened round her. In his native vale, Such and so glorious did this youth appear; A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, By all the graces with which nature's hand Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form;
Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade, Discovered in their own despite to sense Of mortals-if such fables without blame
May find chance mention on this sacred ground--- So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, And through the impediment of rural cares,
In him revealed a scholar's genius shone; And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, In him the spirit of a hero walked
Our unpretending valley. How the quoit
Whizzed from the stripling's arm! If touched by him, The inglorious football mounted to the pitch Of the lark's flight, or shaped a rainbow curve, Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field! The indefatigable fox had learned To dread his perseverance in the chase. With admiration would he lift his eyes To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand Was loath to assault the majesty he loved, Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak To guard the royal brood. The sailing glede, The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe, The sporting sea-gull dancing with the waves, And cautious waterfowl, from distant climes, Fixed at their seat, the centre of the mere, Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim, And lived by his forbearance.
Yarrow Visited.-September 1814.
And is this-Yarrow ?-This the stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished!
O that some minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why?-a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted;
For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation :
Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy; The grace of forest-charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in! For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss; It promises protection
To studious ease and generous cares, And every chaste affection!
How sweet on this autumnal day, The wild wood's fruits to gather, And on my true-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreathed my own!
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 'Twere no offence to reason;
On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The water-wraith 1 ascended thrice- And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the lay that sings The haunts of happy lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers : And pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow !
But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination,
1 An apparition of a person in his exact likeness, supposed to be seen before his death or shortly after.
The sober hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season.
I see but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of fancy still survives- Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the heights, They melt-and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine- Sad thought! which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me-to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow.
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