Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 24

The crew with one consent cried "Bear further out to sea,"

But the waves obeyed no sailor's call, and we knew not where to go.

She foundered on a rock, while we clambered up the shrouds, And staggered like a mountain drunk, wedged in the waves almost.

The red hot boiling billows foamed in the stooping clouds, And in that fatal tempest the whole s.h.i.+p's crew were lost.

Have pity for poor mariners, ye landsmen, in a storm.

O think what they endure at sea while safe at home you stay.

All ye that sleep on beds at night in houses dry and warm, O think upon the whole s.h.i.+p's crew, all lost at Bantry Bay.

_Peggy's the Lady of the Hall_

And will she leave the lowly clowns For silk and satins gay, Her woollen ap.r.o.ns and drab gowns For lady's cold array?

And will she leave the wild hedge rose, The redbreast and the wren, And will she leave her Sunday beaus And milk shed in the glen?

And will she leave her kind friends all To be the Lady of the Hall?

The cowslips bowed their golden drops, The white thorn white as sheets; The lamb agen the old ewe stops, The wren and robin tweets.

And Peggy took her milk pails still, And sang her evening song, To milk her cows on Cowslip Hill For half the summer long.

But silk and satins rich and rare Are doomed for Peggy still to wear.

But when the May had turned to haws, The hedge rose swelled to hips, Peggy was missed without a cause, And left us in eclipse.

The shepherd in the hovel milks, Where builds the little wren, And Peggy's gone, all clad in silks-- Far from the happy glen, From dog-rose, woodbine, clover, all To be the Lady of the Hall.

_I Dreamt of Robin_

I opened the cas.e.m.e.nt this morn at starlight, And, the moment I got out of bed, The daisies were quaking about in their white And the cowslip was nodding its head.

The gra.s.s was all s.h.i.+vers, the stars were all bright, And Robin that should come at e'en-- I thought that I saw him, a ghost by moonlight, Like a stalking horse stand on the green.

I went bed agen and did nothing but dream Of Robin and moonlight and flowers.

He stood like a shadow transfixed by a stream, And I couldn't forget him for hours.

I'd just dropt asleep when I dreamed Robin spoke, And the cas.e.m.e.nt it gave such a shake, As if every pane in the window was broke; Such a patter the gravel did make.

So I up in the morning before the c.o.c.k crew And to strike me a light I sat down.

I saw from the door all his track in the dew And, I guess, called "Come in and sit down."

And one, sure enough, tramples up to the door, And who but young Robin his sen?

And ere the old folks were half willing to stir We met, kissed, and parted agen.

_The Peasant Poet_

He loved the brook's soft sound, The swallow swimming by.

He loved the daisy-covered ground, The cloud-bedappled sky.

To him the dismal storm appeared The very voice of G.o.d; And when the evening rack was reared Stood Moses with his rod.

And everything his eyes surveyed, The insects in the brake, Were creatures G.o.d Almighty made, He loved them for His sake-- A silent man in life's affairs, A thinker from a boy, A peasant in his daily cares, A poet in his joy.

_To John Clare_

Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?

The spring is come, and birds are building nests; The old c.o.c.k robin to the stye is come, With olive feathers and its ruddy breast; And the old c.o.c.k, with wattles and red comb, Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best, Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs, Swept out by little folks an hour ago; The pigs sleep in the stye; the bookman comes-- The little boy lets home-close nesting go, And pockets tops and taws, where daisies bloom, To look at the new number just laid down, With lots of pictures, and good stories too, And Jack the Giant-killer's high renown.

_Feb._ 10, 1860.

_Early Spring_

The Spring is come, and Spring flowers coming too, The crocus, patty kay, the rich hearts' ease; The polyanthus peeps with blebs of dew, And daisy flowers; the buds swell on the trees; While oer the odd flowers swim grandfather bees In the old homestead rests the cottage cow; The dogs sit on their haunches near the pail, The least one to the stranger growls "bow wow,"

Then hurries to the door and c.o.c.ks his tail, To knaw the unfinished bone; the placid cow Looks oer the gate; the thresher's lumping flail Is all the noise the spring encounters now.

_May_ 28, 1860.

_Clock-a-Clay_

In the cowslip pips I lie, Hidden from the buzzing fly, While green gra.s.s beneath me lies, Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes, Here I lie, a clock-a-clay, Waiting for the time of 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 sigh; In the cowslip pips I lie, In rain and dew 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 gra.s.s beneath; Here I live, lone clock-a-clay, Watching for the time of day.

_Little Trotty Wagtail_

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain, And t.i.ttering, tottering sideways he neer 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.

_Graves of Infants_

Infant' graves are steps of angels, where Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose.

G.o.d is their parent, and 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 an 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 oer them, and the gale gently sighs

Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower, Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye.

Their deaths were dew-drops on Heaven's amaranth bower, And tolled on flowers as Summer gales went by.

They bowed and trembled, and they left no sigh, And the sun smiled to show their 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 pa.s.sing bell.

_The Dying Child_

He could not die when trees were green, For he loved the time too well.