Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 4

Tis but a trial all must undergo; To teach unthankful mortals how to prize That happiness vain man's denied to know, Until he's called to claim it in the skies.

_The Maid Of Ocram or, Lord Gregory_

Gay was the Maid of Ocram As lady eer might be Ere she did venture past a maid To love Lord Gregory.

Fair was the Maid of Ocram And s.h.i.+ning like the sun Ere her bower key was turned on two Where bride bed lay for none.

And late at night she sought her love-- The snow slept on her skin-- Get up, she cried, thou false young man, And let thy true love in.

And fain would he have loosed the key All for his true love's sake, But Lord Gregory then was fast asleep, His mother wide awake.

And up she threw the window sash, And out her head put she: And who is that which knocks so late And taunts so loud to me?

It is the Maid of Ocram, Your own heart's next akin; For so you've sworn, Lord Gregory, To come and let me in.

O pause not thus, you know me well, Haste down my way to win.

The wind disturbs my yellow locks, The snow sleeps on my skin.-- If you be the Maid of Ocram, As much I doubt you be, Then tell me of three tokens That pa.s.sed with you and me.--

O talk not now of tokens Which you do wish to break; Chilled are those lips you've kissed so warm, And all too numbed to speak.

You know when in my father's bower You left your cloak for mine, Though yours was nought but silver twist And mine the golden twine.--

If you're the la.s.s of Ocram, As I take you not to be, The second token you must tell Which past with you and me.-- O know you not, O know you not Twas in my father's park, You led me out a mile too far And courted in the dark?

When you did change your ring for mine My yielding heart to win, Though mine was of the beaten gold Yours but of burnished tin, Though mine was all true love without, Yours but false love within?

O ask me no more tokens For fast the snow doth fall.

Tis sad to strive and speak in vain, You mean to break them all.-- If you are the Maid of Ocram, As I take you not to be, You must mention the third token That pa.s.sed with you and me.--

Twas when you stole my maidenhead; That grieves me worst of all.-- Begone, you lying creature, then This instant from my hall, Or you and your vile baby Shall in the deep sea fall; For I have none on earth as yet That may me father call.--

O must none close my dying feet, And must none close my hands, And may none bind my yellow locks As death for all demands?

You need not use no force at all, Your hard heart breaks the vow; You've had your wish against my will And you shall have it now.

And must none close my dying feet, And must none close my hands, And will none do the last kind deeds That death for all demands?-- Your sister, she may close your feet, Your brother close your hands, Your mother, she may wrap your waist In death's fit wedding bands; Your father, he may tie your locks And lay you in the sands.--

My sister, she will weep in vain, My brother ride and run, My mother, she will break her heart; And ere the rising sun My father will be looking out-- But find me they will none.

I go to lay my woes to rest, None shall know where I'm gone.

G.o.d must be friend and father both, Lord Gregory will be none.--

Lord Gregory started up from sleep And thought he heard a voice That screamed full dreadful in his ear, And once and twice and thrice.

Lord Gregory to his mother called: O mother dear, said he, I've dreamt the Maid of Ocram Was floating on the sea.

Lie still, my son, the mother said, Tis but a little s.p.a.ce And half an hour has scarcely pa.s.sed Since she did pa.s.s this place.-- O cruel, cruel mother, When she did pa.s.s so nigh How could you let me sleep so sound Or let her wander bye?

Now if she's lost my heart must break-- I'll seek her till I die.

He sought her east, he sought her west, He sought through park and plain; He sought her where she might have been But found her not again.

I cannot curse thee, mother, Though thine's the blame, said he I cannot curse thee, mother, Though thou'st done worse to me.

Yet do I curse thy pride that aye So tauntingly aspires; For my love was a gay knight's heir, And my father was a squire's.

And I will sell my park and hall; And if ye wed again Ye shall not wed for t.i.tles twice That made ye once so vain.

So if ye will wed, wed for love, As I was fain to do; Ye've gave to me a broken heart, And I'll give nought to you.

Your pride has wronged your own heart's blood; For she was mine by grace, And now my lady love is gone None else shall take her place.

I'll sell my park and sell my hall And sink my t.i.tles too.

Your pride's done wrong enough as now To leave it more to do.

She owneth none that owned them all And would have graced them well; None else shall take the right she missed Nor in my bosom dwell.-- And then he took and burnt his will Before his mother's face, And tore his patents all in two, While tears fell down apace-- But in his mother's haughty look Ye nought but frowns might trace.

And then he sat him down to grieve, But could not sit for pain.

And then he laid him on the bed And ne'er got up again.

_The Gipsy's Camp_

How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp, My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp, Where the real effigy of midnight hags, With tawny smoked flesh and tattered rags, Uncouth-brimmed hat, and weather-beaten cloak, Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak, Along the greensward uniformly p.r.i.c.ks Her pliant bending hazel's arching sticks: While round-topt bush, or briar-entangled hedge, Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge, Keeps off the bothering bustle of the wind, And give the best retreat she hopes to find.

How oft I've bent me oer her fire and smoke, To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke, While the old Sybil forged her boding clack, Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back; Oft on my hand her magic coin's been struck, And hoping c.h.i.n.k, she talked of morts of luck: And still, as boyish hopes did first agree, Mingled with fears to drop the fortune's fee, I never failed to gain the honours sought, And Squire and Lord were purchased with a groat.

But as man's unbelieving taste came round, She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground, Wiped bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist, While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist, Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate, Which like as footboys on her actions wait, That fortune's scale should to my sorrow turn, And I one day the rash neglect should mourn; That good to bad should change, and I should be Lost to this world and all eternity; That poor as Job I should remain unblest:-- (Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!) Of not a h.o.a.rded farthing be possesst, And when all's done, be shoved to h.e.l.l at last!

_Impromptu_

"Where art thou wandering, little child?"

I said to one I met to-day.-- She pushed her bonnet up and smiled, "I'm going upon the green to play: Folks tell me that the May's in flower, That cowslip-peeps are fit to pull, And I've got leave to spend an hour To get this little basket full."

--And thou'st got leave to spend an hour!

My heart repeated.--She was gone; --And thou hast heard the thorn's in flower, And childhood's bliss is urging on: Ah, happy child! thou mak'st me sigh, This once as happy heart of mine, Would nature with the boon comply, How gladly would I change for thine.

_The Wood-cutter's Night Song_

Welcome, red and roundy sun, Dropping lowly in the west; Now my hard day's work is done, I'm as happy as the best.

Joyful are the thoughts of home, Now I'm ready for my chair, So, till morrow-morning's come, Bill and mittens, lie ye there!

Though to leave your pretty song, Little birds, it gives me pain, Yet to-morrow is not long, Then I'm with you all again.

If I stop, and stand about, Well I know how things will be, Judy will be looking out Every now-and-then for me.

So fare ye well! and hold your tongues, Sing no more until I come; They're not worthy of your songs That never care to drop a crumb.

All day long I love the oaks, But, at nights, yon little cot, Where I see the chimney smokes, Is by far the prettiest spot.

Wife and children all are there, To revive with pleasant looks, Table ready set, and chair, Supper hanging on the hooks.

Soon as ever I get in, When my f.a.ggot down I fling, Little prattlers they begin Teasing me to talk and sing.

Welcome, red and roundy sun, Dropping lowly in the west; Now my hard day's work is done, I'm as happy as the best.

Joyful are the thoughts of home, Now I'm ready for my chair, So, till morrow-morning's come, Bill and mittens, lie ye there!