Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 6

And limpid brook that leaps along, Gilt with the summer's burnished gleam, Will stop thy little tale or song To gaze upon its crimping stream.

Thou'lt leave my hand with eager speed The new discovered things to see-- The old pond with its water weed And danger-daring willow tree, Who leans an ancient invalid Oer spots where deepest waters be.

In sudden shout and wild surprise I hear thy simple wonderment, As new things meet thy childish eyes And wake some innocent intent;

As bird or bee or b.u.t.terfly Bounds through the crowd of merry leaves And starts the rapture of thine eye To run for what it neer achieves.

But thou art on the bed of pain, So tells each poor forsaken toy.

Ah, could I see that happy hour When these shall be thy heart's employ, And see thee toddle oer the plain, And stoop for flowers, and shout for joy.

_From "The Parish: A Satire"_

I

In politics and politicians' lies The modern farmer waxes wondrous wise; Opinionates with wisdom all compact, And een could tell a nation how to act; Throws light on darkness with excessive skill, Knows who acts well and whose designs are ill, Proves half the members nought but bribery's tools, And calls the past a dull dark age of fools.

As wise as Solomon they read the news, Not with their blind forefathers' simple views, Who read of wars, and wished that wars would cease, And blessed the King, and wished his country peace; Who marked the weight of each fat sheep and ox, The price of grain and rise and fall of stocks; Who thought it learning how to buy and sell, And him a wise man who could manage well.

No, not with such old-fas.h.i.+oned, idle views Do these newsmongers traffic with the news.

They read of politics and not of grain, And speechify and comment and explain, And know so much of Parliament and state You'd think they're members when you heard them prate; And know so little of their farms the while They can but urge a wiser man to smile.

II

A thing all consequence here takes the lead, Reigning knight-errant oer this dirty breed-- A bailiff he, and who so great to brag Of law and all its terrors as b.u.mtagg; Fawning a puppy at his master's side And frowning like a wolf on all beside; Who fattens best where sorrow worst appears And feeds on sad misfortune's bitterest tears?

Such is b.u.mtagg the bailiff to a hair, The wors.h.i.+pper and demon of despair, Who waits and hopes and wishes for success At every nod and signal of distress, Happy at heart, when storms begin to boil, To seek the s.h.i.+pwreck and to share the spoil.

Brave is this b.u.mtagg, match him if you can; For there's none like him living--save his man.

As every animal a.s.sists his kind Just so are these in blood and business joined; Yet both in different colours hide their art, And each as suits his ends transacts his part.

One keeps the heart-bred villain full in sight, The other cants and acts the hypocrite, Smoothing the deed where law sharks set their gin Like a coy dog to draw misfortune in.

But both will chuckle oer their prisoners' sighs And are as blest as spiders over flies.

Such is b.u.mtagg, whose history I resign, As other knaves wait room to stink and s.h.i.+ne; And, as the meanest knave a dog can brag, Such is the lurcher that a.s.sists b.u.mtagg.

_n.o.body Cometh to Woo_

On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark, And I opened the window to see, When every maiden went by with her spark But neer a one came to me.

And O dear what will become of me?

And O dear what shall I do, When n.o.body whispers to marry me-- n.o.body cometh to woo?

None's born for such troubles as I be: If the sun wakens first in the morn "Lazy hussy" my parents both call me, And I must abide by their scorn, For n.o.body cometh to marry me, n.o.body cometh to woo, So here in distress must I tarry me-- What can a poor maiden do?

If I sigh through the window when Jerry The ploughman goes by, I grow bold; And if I'm disposed to be merry, My parents do nothing but scold; And Jerry the clown, and no other, Eer cometh to marry or woo; They think me the moral of mother And judge me a terrible shrew.

For mother she hateth all fellows, And spinning's my father's desire, While the old cat growls ba.s.s with the bellows If eer I hitch up to the fire.

I make the whole house out of humour, I wish nothing else but to please, Would fortune but bring a new comer To marry, and make me at ease!

When I've nothing my leisure to hinder I scarce get as far as the eaves; Her head's instant out of the window Calling out like a press after thieves.

The young men all fall to remarking, And laugh till they're weary to see't, While the dogs at the noise begin barking, And I slink in with shame from the street.

My mother's aye jealous of loving, My father's aye jealous of play, So what with them both there's no moving, I'm in durance for life and a day.

O who shall I get for to marry me?

Who will have pity to woo?

Tis death any longer to tarry me, And what shall a poor maiden do?

_Distant Hills_

What is there in those distant hills My fancy longs to see, That many a mood of joy instils?

Say what can fancy be?

Do old oaks thicken all the woods, With weeds and brakes as here?

Does common water make the floods, That's common everywhere?

Is gra.s.s the green that clothes the ground?

Are springs the common springs?

Daisies and cowslips dropping round, Are such the flowers she brings?

Are cottages of mud and stone, By valley wood and glen, And their calm dwellers little known Men, and but common men,

That drive afield with carts and ploughs?

Such men are common here, And pastoral maidens milking cows Are dwelling everywhere.

If so my fancy idly clings To notions far away, And longs to roam for common things All round her every day,

Right idle would the journey be To leave one's home so far, And see the moon I now can see And every little star.

And have they there a night and day, And common counted hours?

And do they see so far away This very moon of ours?

I mark him climb above the trees With one small [comrade] star, And think me in my reveries-- He cannot s.h.i.+ne so far.

The poets in the tales they tell And with their happy powers Have made lands where their fancies dwell Seem better lands than ours.

Why need I sigh far hills to see If gra.s.s is their array, While here the little paths go through The greenest every day?

Such fancies fill the restless mind, At once to cheat and cheer With thought and semblance undefined, Nowhere and everywhere.

MIDDLE PERIOD 1824-1836